Chapter Five
The morning after the promo, Bite Me looked like tomato sauce had fought a beach party and lost.
Salt streaked the patio tables. A paper boat sat crooked on the neon shark’s head. I dropped a flyer into the trash and opened the proof stack.
Last night’s numbers sat on the back counter: card batches, cash envelope, food and drink totals, and the payment note I’d rewritten twice so no Torretti Harbor Capital weasel could pretend the money was decorative.
Noon waited on my phone screen with three hours and seventeen minutes left.
That was when Sal Torretti wanted Nico’s signature on a packet that turned a late payment into acceleration, penalties, collateral review, lease pressure, and an expensive way of saying give us the bar.
I pressed both palms flat on the counter until the papers stopped sliding.
Then I moved, because panic didn’t get paid hourly.
I had on black shorts, a turquoise wrap top, flat sandals, and an apron hanging from one hip. My hair was twisted up with a lime-green scarf, high enough to stay out of cannoli cream and loose enough that the mark on my neck showed when I turned.
Miami had seen worse before breakfast.
“Boss,” Shay called from the service well, “is this blue drink supposed to look like vacation or a mermaid’s lawsuit?”
The prototype sat on the bar: ocean-blue coconut, curacao, lime, tequila, and a black sea-salt rim dramatic enough to need its own seating chart.
“It’s supposed to look like tourists will pay sixteen dollars for it,” I said.
“Then she’s beautiful,” Shay said.
The back door opened, and Nico stepped in wearing rolled sleeves, dark linen, and one look at my proof stack.
Shay’s spoon stopped against the glass.
Nico looked from the payment note to the phone screen counting down toward noon. His jaw tightened once, then settled.
“Morning,” he said.
“That depends on your position on black sea salt.”
“My position is that it belongs on fish.”
“You’re about to evolve.”
Shay slid the prototype toward him. “Please tell her if it tastes like sunscreen before she puts it in front of customers.”
“I heard that,” I said.
“That’s workplace transparency,” Shay said.
Nico picked up the glass. He studied the dark rim, the blue drink, the curl of lime, and the tiny gummy shark I had already regretted on a spiritual level.
“No gummy shark,” he said.
I pointed the tasting spoon at him. “You haven’t even tasted it.”
“I can see the problem.”
“The problem has margin.”
“The problem looks like it came from a gas station aquarium.”
Shay set one hand over her mouth.
I plucked the gummy shark off the rim and dropped it into the trash. “Fine. The shark is gone.”
Nico drank.
Shay leaned one hip against the counter. I stopped pretending not to care and waited with the notebook open.
His jaw shifted once.
“Well?” I asked.
“The color works.”
“That’s not a taste.”
“The black salt works.”
“That’s still not a taste.”
“Coconut is too heavy. More lime. Less sweet. Don’t let the curacao do all the talking.”
I hated how fast I reached for the notebook.
Shay nodded slowly. “I hate that he’s right.”
“Everyone hates that,” I said. “It’s how he gets through airports.”
Nico’s mouth curved, but the smile didn’t stay. His gaze dropped again to the phone on the counter.
Two hours and fifty-eight minutes.
I turned the phone facedown. “Taste the cannoli.”
“Is that an order?”
“It’s food in my bar. Everything is an order.”
I took the tray from the low cooler. The shells were crisp little cups, small enough to eat in two bites and sturdy enough for patio service if nobody got artistic with humidity. I piped chocolate-chip cannoli cream into one, dusted the top, and set it on a napkin in front of him.
Nico picked it up carefully for a man who could probably bend the sink with one hand.
He ate it in one bite.
His eyes closed for half a second.
Heat slid under my skin and went straight to the place where I had no time for it.
“Useful words, Torretti.”
He opened his eyes. “Dangerous.”
“To my profit margin or your self-control?”
“Yes.”
Shay made a quiet sound and pretended to clean the same spoon.
I pulled the tray back before Nico could see how much I liked that answer. “The shell holds?”
“The shell holds. The cream needs to stay cold until service.”
“I know. I have a plan.”
“Of course you do.”
“Don’t sound proud. It makes me itchy.”
The side door banged open, and Mari came in with her tote bag, black hair already twisted tight and gold hoops flashing under the kitchen lights. She took one look at Nico, the blue drink, the cannoli tray, and the paperwork on the counter.
“No one is bleeding,” she said. “That’s nice.”
“Give us time,” Shay said.
Mari pointed at the cannoli tray. “Those can’t sit filled on the patio.”
“They won’t,” I said. “Cold cream in the piping bag, dry shells at the pass, six fresh at a time.”
Mari’s mouth flattened in approval. “Good. I don’t want tourists posting sad cannoli on the internet.”
“Nobody posts sad cannoli from my bar.”
Taryn came through the front with menus under one arm and her phone in the other, honey-brown braid swinging over her shoulder. “Three people asked if last night’s thing is happening again because they saw photos.”
“No,” I said. “Last night had a name. Today has survival.”
“Should I write that on the chalkboard?”
“Absolutely not.”
Dusty drifted in behind her with a bag of clean towels over one shoulder and sunglasses on his head. “I feel like survival is a strong theme for the hospitality industry.”
“Survive by putting those towels behind the bar,” Mari said.
“I can support that,” Dusty said.
I clapped my hands once. “Listen up. Today’s push is the shark margarita and mini cannoli cups.
Not last night again. No table cards, no explaining a whole theme to people who think menus are riddles.
Taryn, you prep the front and queue the social post, but it doesn’t go live until I say.
Shay, you keep the blue drink fast and pretty without making it taste like pool water.
Mari, cannoli stays under your authority.
Dusty, if you put anything filled with cream near sunlight, I’ll call your mother. ”
Dusty blinked. “You know my mother?”
“No, but I have determination and internet access.”
“That seems possible,” he said, and moved faster.
Nico waited until the staff split into motion before stepping closer. “What do you need from me?”
“Right now? Carry the dry shell cases to the pass. After that, check the front rail and keep tourists from blocking the service path. When Sal calls, you take it where I can hear. You don’t answer questions about my business without me. You don’t scare my staff. You don’t sign anything.”
His attention stayed on me through every sentence.
“I won’t sign it,” he said.
The room noise kept moving. Shay poured the adjusted blue prototype into a fresh glass. Mari snapped on gloves. Taryn filmed the drink from an angle that hid the mop bucket because she was a professional.
I kept my voice low. “Nico.”
“I won’t certify default.”
My fingers tightened around the notebook.
I picked up the tray of empty cannoli cups and shoved it toward him. “Pass. Dry side. Don’t crush my dessert inventory while making major life choices.”
His hands closed over the tray. “Yes, boss.”
“Don’t enjoy that.”
“I’m not making promises I can’t keep.”
By eleven forty-seven, the bar was prepped, the adjusted shark margarita had passed Shay’s taste test, Mari had declared the cannoli cream acceptable for civilized people, and Taryn had the launch video saved in drafts with her thumb hovering dangerously close to the post button.
By eleven fifty-eight, my phone lit up.
SAL TORRETTI
I didn’t touch it.
Nico looked at me.
“Office,” I said.
He picked up the phone. “Speaker?”
“Always.”
The tiny office still smelled like old receipts and hot printer paper. I shut the door behind us, set the payment pages on the desk, and watched Nico answer.
“Uncle Sal,” he said.
The line stayed quiet for one beat.
“Send the packet,” Sal said.
I looked at Nico’s hands. They stayed flat on the desk, palms down, steady.
“No,” he said.
The word was quiet.
The back of my throat went tight.
Sal exhaled. “Say that again.”
“I’m not signing default. I’m not certifying acceleration, penalties, collateral review, or lease pressure when she’s producing payment toward the original principal.”
“You don’t decide what the contract means.”
“I decide what I sign.”
The little fan clicked in the corner. Outside the office, Mari called for a clean piping tip, and the normal sound of the bar made Sal’s voice feel colder.
“Is Ms. DeLuca standing there?” Sal asked.
I leaned toward the phone. “I’m right here.”
“Naturally.”
“Yes. Women who own businesses do that sometimes.”
“Nico has a role. You’ve made him forget it.”
“No,” Nico said. “I remember it exactly.”
His voice stayed quiet, which made it worse.
Sal ignored him. “Ms. DeLuca, your payment toward principal doesn’t erase default.”
“No,” I said. “But it proves the bar is earning. It proves I’m paying the honest part.”
“The contract allows remedies beyond the honest part.”
“There it is,” I said.
Nico turned his head toward me.
I picked up the top page from the folder. My hands stayed steady because this was mine, and Sal Torretti didn’t get to make me shake in my own office.
“You didn’t want me to pay,” I said. “You wanted to see whether this place was worth taking.”
Sal gave a low laugh. “Careful.”
“I’ve been careful for four days. I have receipts, closed card batches, deposit notes, food and drink totals, and a second public push about to open. If you want to argue about money, argue about money. If you want the bar, say you want the bar.”
“Nico,” Sal said, “get her out of the room.”
Nico didn’t move.
I looked at him.
He looked back at me.
Then he said, “No.”
A tiny, terrible warmth opened in my chest.
Sal’s voice dropped. “You choose this?”
Nico looked at the paperwork, then at me, then back to the phone.
“I choose not to lie.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“It’s the answer you’re getting.”
Sal went silent.