Chapter Four #3
By six, the promo had turned the open front into a funnel.
People stopped at the printed specials, leaned over the host stand, and got pulled in by Taryn before they could drift away.
Music ran under the noise, beachy and loud enough to lift the room without making the staff yell.
The neon shark glowed over the back mirror.
String lights warmed the patio. Outside, the sunset turned the boardwalk pink while palms shifted against a hot, bright sky.
Bite Me had turned into summer ordering another round.
Nella worked the bar with Shay, switching between drinks, food timing, and customer mood without wasting one movement. Shay handled tickets with her dry little half-smile. Taryn held the waiting tourists in order. Dusty ran food with surprising speed.
A man at table six lifted a square of tomato pie. “So this is pizza?”
Dusty set down two paper boats. “Family tree, not twins.”
The man studied the square again. “That makes sense.”
Dusty nodded. “Food genealogy is important.”
Mari lifted a spoon from the pass. “Food running is more important.”
Dusty moved faster.
I stood where Nella put me.
At the patio rail.
In the back hall with a stack of empty crates.
Beside the host stand when the crowd grew thick and one bachelor party started treating the entrance like a committee meeting.
One of them tried to step around the line with a grin that had worked for him too often.
“We’re just joining our friends,” he said.
Taryn checked the list. “Your friends can join you at the end of the line.”
He angled his head past her toward the patio. “Come on. We’ll be quick.”
I stepped to Taryn’s left.
The man’s grin faltered. “Is there a problem?”
“Not yet,” I said. “That’s the best time to avoid one.”
His friends laughed nervously.
Nella called from behind the bar without looking over. “If they’re deciding whether to behave, tell them the meatballs are worth personal growth.”
Taryn smiled. “You heard the owner.”
The man checked my face, the full patio, and then Taryn. “End of the line is fine.”
“Beautiful choice,” Taryn said.
I didn’t touch him. I didn’t threaten him. I didn’t even lean.
Nella saw anyway.
She caught my eyes over the room, quick and bright, before she turned back to the shaker in her hand.
I wanted that look again more than I wanted the fight.
At seven fifteen, my phone vibrated.
I checked the screen.
UNCLE SAL:
Status.
I found Nella.
She stood at the service well with a shaker in one hand, a towel over her shoulder, and three customers trying to get her attention at once. She saw my phone, saw my face, and pointed toward the tiny office with two fingers.
Then she tapped her own chest.
I waited.
She handed Shay the shaker. “Finish that, strain over fresh ice, orange wheel on top. If anyone asks for a blender, tell them the blender is emotionally unavailable.”
Shay took it. “The blender and I share that state.”
Nella slipped under the service gate and crossed to me. “Office.”
“You’re in the middle of the rush.”
“I said office.”
We went.
This time, I didn’t need to be told to put the phone on speaker.
I called Uncle Sal with Nella standing beside the desk, sauce on her apron, scarf still tied at her ponytail, and one foot angled toward the door like the room had thirty seconds to impress her.
He answered on the first ring. “Tell me she failed.”
Nella leaned toward the phone. “Sorry to disappoint.”
Uncle Sal exhaled slowly. “Ms. DeLuca.”
“Still busy. Still Nella.”
I focused on the phone. “The promo is working. Patio is full. Counter is turning. Food sales are strong.”
“How strong?”
“I’ll send verified numbers after close.”
“You said that this morning.”
“It’s still true tonight.”
“You’re getting sentimental about receipts.”
“I’m getting accurate about numbers.”
Nella almost smiled.
Uncle Sal didn’t miss the edge in my voice. “Nico, you have a job.”
“I’m doing it.”
“No. You’re moving boxes and playing security at a beach bar.”
“I’m observing the business.”
“You’re protecting the debtor.”
Nella straightened. “I’m standing right here.”
“I know,” Uncle Sal said. “That’s why I chose debtor instead of something less polite.”
I pressed my teeth together.
Nella set her hand on my forearm.
She didn’t grip hard. She didn’t stroke. She just set the weight of her hand there until I made myself breathe.
“Sal,” I said.
“No. I’ve heard enough. If tonight is full, then tomorrow you prepare enforcement. Acceleration, penalties, collateral review, lease pressure. If she pays against principal, you accept it without promising cure. If she doesn’t pay enough, you move.”
Nella lifted her hand from my arm. “I still have time.”
“You have what I allow.”
“That’s a very brave sentence over the phone.”
“Nella,” I said quietly.
She shot me a look. “I’m not done.”
Uncle Sal laughed once, calm and cold. “You think he can save you because he carried a few boxes?”
“No,” she said. “I think I can save my bar because customers keep paying me. Nico is just tall enough to be useful.”
I pressed my tongue to the back of my teeth and held the smile off my face.
Uncle Sal’s voice sharpened. “This is amusing to you?”
“No,” I said. “It’s informative.”
“Then hear this clearly. By noon tomorrow, I want the default packet with your name on it. If I don’t get it, come back to Jersey and explain why my collector forgot who he works for.”
The kitchen bell rang downstairs.
Nella didn’t move.
“Enjoy your promo,” Uncle Sal said. “It may be the last one you run without our permission.”
The call ended.
The little office held the dead phone, the fan clicking in the corner, and the sound of the crowd downstairs.
Nella faced me. “You told me where he’ll twist.”
“Yes.”
“Then I keep it straight.”
“Nella.”
“No.” She picked up my phone and put it in my hand. “You can have whatever conversation with yourself you need to have after close. Right now, I have paying customers, and you have a patio line to keep out of my server lane.”
She opened the office door and went back into the rush.
I followed.
The rest of the night hit hard.
Nella didn’t slow down. Uncle Sal’s threat put color in her cheeks and steel in her voice. She moved faster, sharper, more focused.
At eight, a table near the patio rail tried to wave her over while she was pouring two drinks.
“We’re emotionally fragile,” one woman called. “Do we need the meatball sliders?”
Nella slid the drinks to Shay and indicated the table with the shaker. “Everyone needs meatball sliders. Some people are just brave enough to admit it.”
The woman laughed. “That sounds like a yes.”
“That sounds like two orders and excellent self-knowledge.” Nella called to the pass. “Mari, table twelve has chosen emotional support.”
Mari pushed a tray forward. “Tell table twelve to support the plate when it gets there.”
By eight fifteen, another tray of tomato pie squares left the kitchen.
I carried trays when Mari ran out of patience for physics.
I moved a crate of tequila before Shay had to ask.
I guided two lost tourists to the takeout window and waited near the patio rail until a drunk man looked at his own table, looked at me, and returned to his chair without needing advice.
When Taryn needed space at the host stand, I stood near the entrance until the crowd remembered lines meant something.
Every time I reached for the old way to do things, Nella’s voice cut across the room and gave me a better job.
At nine thirty, Nella shoved a paper boat into my hand as she passed. “Eat.”
I checked the paper boat. One meatball slider sat in sauce, cheese, and a roll that had no structural chance.
“I’m working.”
“You’re large. You require maintenance.”
“That sounds romantic.”
“It’s not. If you faint, you’ll block the walkway.”
I took a bite.
Sauce hit first, rich and hot, then beef, cheese, bread, basil, and enough garlic to make Uncle Sal classify it as an aggressive act.
Nella watched my face while she reached for a shaker.
“Well?” she asked.
“It’s good.”
She narrowed her eyes. “We’ve discussed useless compliments.”
“It’s messy, hot, and dangerous to white linen.”
“That’s the sales pitch.”
“The roll needs to be stronger.”
“I know.” She angled the shaker at me. “I ordered different rolls. They’re late because the bread guy believes delivery windows are gentle suggestions.”
“Do you want me to call him?”
“No.”
“I wasn’t going to threaten him.”
“You were going to sound like you might.”
“That’s a service.”
“That’s a lawsuit with cheekbones.”
I laughed, and she turned away with a smile she tried to hide behind the shaker.