Chapter Four
“Uncle Sal would start with the missed payment,” I said. “He’d argue that the missed deadline lets Torretti Harbor Capital demand the full balance now.”
Nella sat at the tiny desk upstairs with the night’s card slips and cash count spread in front of her.
She still wore the soft teal tank and shorts she’d pulled on earlier, and her dark hair fell over one shoulder, hiding most of the bite on her neck.
The office smelled like lime, warm paper, and the ocean coming through the cracked window.
She picked up her pen. “Can he actually do that?”
“He can try.”
“That answer needs more words.”
“If the contract is as ugly as I think it is, he can claim the missed payment puts the whole loan in default. Then he’ll push for penalties, equipment, deposits, and whatever leverage he can find in the lease.”
Her pen hovered over the pad. “So he doesn’t just want to be paid.”
“He wants the bar.”
Nella glanced down at the card slips, the cash count, and the deposit notes she’d lined up by hand. “What makes him lose?”
“Numbers he can’t twist,” I said. “Closed card batches. Cash deposits. Order totals. Copies of every payment you make toward the original balance. Anything that proves you’re earning and paying him instead of stalling him.”
“I can do that.”
“I know you can.”
She lifted her eyes to mine. “And you don’t take over.”
“I don’t take over.”
“You don’t talk to my staff like they work for you.”
“They work for you.”
“You don’t make side calls about my business.”
“I won’t.”
Nella glanced at a menu draft half-buried under the cash count and pulled it free.
“Tomorrow was supposed to be my first Jersey Shore Night,” she said.
“What’s Jersey Shore Night?”
“It’s a promo here,” she said. “Boardwalk-style specials, one margarita I can batch fast, printed specials on the tables, music, and a reason for beach traffic to stop instead of drifting to the next bar.”
I read the top line. “You already had this planned?”
“I had it planned before your uncle decided my week wasn’t stressful enough.” She flattened the page beside the cash count. “If I get people in the door, the money follows.”
“You think it can move enough?”
“It has to.” She met my eyes. “You can help where I ask. You can carry, watch the line, and keep the patio from becoming a lawsuit. I run the floor.”
“You run the floor,” I said.
“Good. Then show up after breakfast and wear something you can carry boxes in.”
I should’ve left after that.
I did leave after that.
Those weren’t the same thing.
Nella stayed at the desk with her pen, the menu draft, and the money she’d earned one drink and one paper boat at a time. I walked down the back stairs, crossed the dark bar, and let myself out through the service door. The lock turned behind me a few seconds later.
I stopped with my hand still open at my side.
The boardwalk was almost empty. Two tourists stood near the rail, both pointing in opposite directions and looking betrayed by their own phones. A delivery truck groaned somewhere down the block. The ocean moved black beyond the palms, and for once I didn’t go toward it.
The water would take the edge off.
It wouldn’t fix the problem.
Uncle Sal had taught me to smell weakness before a man showed it. He’d taught me which pauses meant fear, which smiles meant a lie, which signatures mattered, and which people could be squeezed until they stopped pretending they had choices.
He’d never taught me what to do when the person in front of me refused to fold and made me want to move the whole damn world out of her way without touching a single thing she owned.
By nine the next morning, I stood at the service entrance in dark linen with the sleeves rolled up, black swim trunks, leather sandals, my watch, and enough sense not to wear white around tomato sauce.
Nella opened the door with a clipboard under one arm and a red halter tied at the back of her neck.
Her dark hair was pulled high in a ponytail with a scarf knotted around it, and her apron already had a smear of flour across one hip.
A loose curl and the scarf’s tail hid most of the mark on her neck.
Not all of it.
Her gaze moved from my shirt to my sleeves. “Look at that. The vacation villain can dress for labor.”
“I took your box warning seriously.”
“That’s promising.”
“I’m a promising man.”
“You’re a dangerous man who can reach the top shelf.” She stepped back and nodded toward the kitchen. “Come inside before Mari sees you standing there empty-handed and invents a task with consequences.”
The morning side of the bar was different from the night before.
No music yet. No tourist laughter pushing through the open front.
Just prep noise, early sun, metal pans, knives on boards, and the deep, rich smell of tomatoes already warming in the kitchen.
Printed specials were stacked near the service well.
A roll of blue tape sat beside them. Someone had written TONIGHT ONLY across the top in block letters with a tiny shark drawn beside it.
Nella moved through it like every problem had been assigned a station.
“Two cases of tomatoes to the pass,” she said. “Dry storage gets the napkins. Don’t put anything in front of the walk-in. Dusty does that when he’s feeling spiritually adventurous.”
“I heard my name and deny nothing,” Dusty called from somewhere behind the bar.
Mari leaned out of the kitchen, black hair tight in a bun, gold hoops flashing. “If he stacks anything near my stove, I’m charging you for the knife I use.”
Nella didn’t look away from the clipboard. “See? Consequences.”
I picked up the first tomato case. “Good morning, Mari.”
Mari gave me one quick sweep. “You dressed for work.”
“I was advised.”
“Then carry fast.”
Shay came in from the front with sunglasses on top of her head and a stack of clean bar towels against one hip. “Nella, the printed specials look good, but a tourist outside pointed at boardwalk-style and said, ‘Are you putting a boardwalk in the dining room?’”
Nella closed her eyes for half a second. “Tell them the boardwalk is a state of mind and the fire code says no.”
Shay’s mouth twitched. “I’ll make it sound less concerning.”
“Don’t make it too charming. I can’t afford construction questions.”
Taryn appeared at the takeout window with a laminated menu draft. Her braid swung over one shoulder, and a pen was tucked behind her ear. “Two volleyball guys already came by and said, ‘Is this the place with music tonight?’ I can start pitching the promo to that crowd at lunch.”
“Tell them music starts at five,” Nella said. “Food starts when Mari permits joy.”
Mari lifted a spoon from the pass. “Joy starts when the meatballs are the correct size.”
Dusty drifted past carrying a stack of paper boats. “I support appropriately sized meatballs.”
“Prove it by putting those by the pass,” Mari said.
Nella aimed the clipboard at him. “After that, specials go out front.”
Dusty nodded. “The specials and I are ready for the public.”
“Try not to discuss destiny with customers before noon.”
“I can try.”
“That’s more realistic. Do that.”
I moved where Nella sent me, carried what she assigned, and kept my mouth shut unless someone asked me a direct question. That sounded simple.
It took work.
Nella moved like a weather event with a clipboard.
The longer I stood there, the more pressure points showed themselves.
The narrow gap near the service well where customers could block staff.
The patio rail where the line could drift into the server path.
The back door hinge that still didn’t sit right.
The cash drawer that needed a second lockbox before closing.
I set the tomato case on the pass and swallowed the suggestion on my tongue.
Nella caught me looking at the patio. “No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your eyebrows did.”
“I have expressive eyebrows.”
“You have expensive-man eyebrows. They look like they’re about to order people around.”
I lifted both hands, palms out. “No orders.”
“Good. If I need intimidation, I’ll point.”
“That’s a practical system.”
“It’s worked on cheese vendors and one health inspector with boundary issues.”
My phone vibrated before I could answer.
The screen lit with Uncle Sal’s name.
Nella saw it. She kept the clipboard tucked against her ribs, but her fingers tightened around the edge.
I held the phone up. “It’s him.”
“No side calls,” she said.
“No side calls.”
She nodded toward the tiny office off the back hall. “Speaker. Door closed. If he says anything that makes me want to throw marinara, you’re cleaning it up.”
“I’ll clean the marinara.”
“You’ll also carry two more cases after this.”
I followed her into the office.
It barely deserved the name. One desk, one chair, a shelf with invoice folders, a corkboard full of delivery notes, and a fan that made a tired clicking sound in the corner. Nella shut the door, leaned one hip against the desk, and crossed her arms.
I answered the call and put it on speaker. “Sal.”
“You’re late,” Uncle Sal said.
“It’s ten forty-six.”
“I asked for numbers before noon. Men who intend to obey don’t wait until the hour before.”
Nella lifted one eyebrow.
I faced the phone. “Nella is here.”
Silence followed.
Then Uncle Sal said, “That was a poor choice.”
Nella leaned closer to the phone. “Good morning to you too.”
“Ms. DeLuca.”
“Nella is fine if you’re going to discuss my bar while I’m standing here.”
“It’s still your bar this morning.”
She tightened her mouth, but her voice stayed even. “Then I’d better get back to running it soon. What do you need?”
Uncle Sal made a small sound that wasn’t a laugh. “You have courage.”
“I have meatballs on a timer and a lender with terrible manners. Courage isn’t the urgent item.”
I turned my head because I couldn’t help it.
Nella didn’t look at me. Good. I wasn’t sure what my expression was doing, and she’d already banned half of them.
“I want last night’s totals,” Uncle Sal said.