Chapter Eleven
Marcello
Elio has withdrawn from me.
There’s a chilly, quiet undercurrent between us.
He doesn’t snap or confront me aggressively, that might be easier to deal with.
Instead, he’s simply retreated behind some invisible line I can’t seem to cross.
Polite answers. Cool smiles. His body angled away from mine whenever we share the same space.
He’s completely different from how he was the night we shared our stories with each other.
I thought we’d grown closer that night. I thought something had changed between us.
Perhaps it did, and I ruined it by vanishing into my work?
I can admit, I’ve been distracted. Consumed by finding a thief within my organization.
Someone is stealing from me, and that can’t continue.
I look weak if I can’t stop them taking from me.
If I look weak, that encourages others to try and take things.
Maybe even my life or the lives of those I protect.
The theft is happening at one of my casinos in the Heights. It’s been bleeding money for weeks. I’ve been there past midnight five nights running trying to find the leak. Each morning I’ve left before Elio wakes and returned home after he’s asleep. That might be why he’s feeling neglected.
But it couldn’t be helped. I have to find the thief.
Obviously, this asshole thought I wouldn’t notice the theft, but they’re dead wrong.
It’s taking longer than I’d like to catch them, but I’ll get them.
I’m good at hunting down people who steal from me.
I’m good at making them pay for taking my money.
What I’m not good at, apparently, is keeping the omega sitting beside me happy.
Even though I’ve made time for him this evening, Elio is sulky.
He’s looking out the window of the SUV we’re riding in together, one elbow on the door and his chin propped on his fist. He’s watching the city slide past with a stony expression.
He’s only three feet away, but it feels like thirty.
He’s hugging the door like he thinks I have leprosy.
I didn’t ignore him on purpose, he should know that.
There are things I have to take care of.
I’m running a goddamned empire, and he should understand there will be times I can’t be as attentive.
But even if all of that is true, it bothers me that he’s giving me the cold shoulder.
I hate it when he ignores me or is unhappy with me.
I clear my throat. “The place we’re going is called Cabrera’s,” I say. “It’s a bistro near the waterfront. I bought the building two years ago and the restaurant came with it. It should be making money hand over fist, but instead it’s been losing money.”
“That’s unfortunate.” He doesn’t turn from the window.
I ignore his disinterested tone. “The food’s good so I don’t think that’s the reason people don’t come back.” I watch the side of his face. “I thought you might see something wrong with the place that I don’t pick up on.”
That gets me a glance, finally. “You want my opinion on the operation?”
“Yes. We talked about you helping me with consulting, remember?”
“I remember.” He goes back to the window, but something in his shoulders has changed. He’s a little less rigid. “Sure. I’m happy to help.”
It’s not much, but it’s the most interest he’s shown in anything I’ve said during the entire ride, so I’ll take it.
Anthony pulls up to the restaurant, and Elio and I get out of the SUV.
Cabrera’s sits at the end of the south jetty with water on three sides. It’s a low building of weathered cedar and glass. Boats bob at their moorings off the pier, and past the railing the harbor opens wide, the lights of the far shore appearing as dusk falls.
It’s Friday night and from outside, the restaurant looks half empty. That makes no sense because the view is amazing and there’s plenty of walk-by traffic. People should be fighting for tables and willing to wait an hour to eat.
“Great location but it doesn’t look very busy,” Elio says softly, echoing my thoughts.
“No, it doesn’t.”
He frowns. “There are some customers in there, but whoever seated them didn’t put them by the windows. That’s not smart. With a half-empty restaurant, you should seat people by the windows so you at least look busy. It encourages other people to try the place.”
“You’re right.”
I open the door for Elio and the manager, Marco, is on us before the door finishes closing behind us. He’s a lanky man, around forty, with a well-cut suit and a smile that’s practiced.
“Mr. Foschini,” he says breathily. “What an honor for you to dine with us. Would you prefer a private room?”
“No, the main dining room will do, Marco.” I shake his hand and gesture to Elio. “This is my husband, Elio. I’ve told him how good the food is here. He wanted to come try it for himself.”
“How flattering.” He turns to Elio. “Welcome, Elio. It’s my pleasure to serve you this evening.”
“I’m looking forward to the experience,” Elio says politely.
The inside of the restaurant is even better than the outside, which is saying something.
Whoever designed the space understood the view was the star and built everything to serve it.
The whole western wall is glass, floor to ceiling, showcasing the harbor and the dropping sun so the water itself becomes art.
The ceiling is open to the rafters, weathered beams of pale reclaimed wood with brass fixtures hung low over the tables.
The floors are wide oak planks, the walls a soft museum white hung with a few large abstract canvases in blues and grays.
The overall feel of the place is sophisticated, but not stuffy.
The tables are dressed in heavy white linen, real linen, not the poly stuff, and the chairs are low and comfortable in oiled leather the color of caramel.
There’s a wall of wine behind glass near the bar, backlit, hundreds of bottles glowing like something in a jewelry case.
The restaurant is stunning. Whatever issues Cabrera’s has, it most certainly isn’t décor related.
Marco walks us to a table by the window, pulling out chairs, snapping his fingers at the servers. Elio meets my gaze, looking annoyed, but I’m not sure what’s bothering him. We were greeted and seated quickly, isn’t that a good thing?
A young woman hurries over with menus and water.
She starts to say something, but Marco talks over her to tell us about the specials.
When she tries again, he sings the praises of the chef and tells us about the awards he’s won in Milan.
She sighs, but continues setting the table, obviously used to the way he is.
I peruse the wine list and Elio tries to ask the girl something about the specials.
Before she can respond, Marco again answers for her.
I decide on a wine and Marco sweeps off toward the kitchen, snapping his fingers at the busboy a table over.
Elio’s scowl deepens and I realize he resents the way Marco snaps his fingers at his staff.
I suppose it is rather dismissive, but I probably wouldn’t have even noticed he was doing it if Elio hadn’t looked displeased.
Elio watches the staff move around the room, his eyes tracking everything. He especially fixes his gaze on the servers’ paths from the kitchen to the floor.
“Whoever designed this place knew nothing about work flow,” he says, half to himself.
“What do you mean?”
He nods toward the bar. “Watch the bar.”
I glance toward the bar that runs along the inland wall. The bartender behind it is young, moving fast, sweat at his hairline and obvious strain on his face. “I think he’s new. I’ve never seen him before.”
“That’s a relief because if he’s been here a while he’s incompetent.” Elio sighs. “Watch how he hunts for the glasses and the garnish. He doesn’t know where anything is. That’s a problem. If he’s new, he needs better training.”
“I agree. He looks lost.”
“To be honest, everyone here seems new.” He glances around then goes back to watching the bartender. “A place like this especially needs a bartender who’s a fixture. If you have a good bartender, they can be the reason regulars come in.”
“I’ll bet you had a bunch of regulars back at Duffy’s,” I say, feeling a twinge of jealousy.
I’m sure Pete was one of his regulars.
He shrugs, not picking up on my possessiveness. “Yes. I had people who came in just to talk to me. Regulars like to feel like they know the staff by name and that the staff knows them too. People don’t want to feel like they’re just a number on a spreadsheet.”
“No, of course not.” I watch the young bartender fumbling around behind the bar. “Jesus, he’s been working on the same drink for ten minutes.”
“Yep.” Elio grimaces. “I feel bad for the guy. I’m tempted to jump behind the bar and help him.”
I frown. “Don’t you dare. You’re here to have dinner with me.”
He narrows his eyes. “More like I’m here to work, and while we’re here, we’re having dinner.”
“No, the dinner is the real reason we’re here. I wanted to take you out. Your observations are just icing on the cake.”
Elio’s expression says he isn’t buying it, but he doesn’t bother arguing. “Notice how the bartender has to keep stopping serving people at the bar to fetch the drinks for the servers?”
“Yes.” The bartender is constantly turning from the people at the bar to build trays of drinks that runners snatch and carry to the floor.
“He’s making every cocktail for the dining room,” Elio says.
“That’s not normal?”
“Making them is normal. Making all of them by himself while he’s also covering the bar isn’t.” Elio nods toward the bartender, who’s already reaching for another glass before he’s finished with the first. “Every server ticket is going through him. And he still has actual bar guests waiting on him.”
I frown. “So he needs another bartender?”
“That would be a good start. He should at least have a barback.” Elio shakes his head. “Without help, even an experienced bartender would be drowning, and this kid isn’t experienced.”
“What’s a barback?”