Chapter 2 - The Logic of the Leftover Tea
The kitchen of Bellafior was a cavern of copper and steam, but by eleven o'clock, the roar of the exhaust fans had died down to a low, electric hum. Chef Lorenzo was sitting on an overturned milk crate, smoking a cigarette near the back alley door, while Elias was meticulously polishing the silver espresso spoons with a piece of dry chamois.
Mara stood by the clean-up station, her apron discarded, her white uniform shirt unbuttoned at the collar. In front of her sat the small silver tray from the private dining room. On it was a single porcelain cup, an untouched porcelain pot of chamomile, and a small glass dish containing three perfect twists of lemon peel.
Lucia Bellandi had stayed for two hours. She had eaten half a fillet of sole, drank two sips of hot water, and spent the rest of the evening watching her son through the reflection in the dark glass window. Nico had sat at her right hand, his large frame bent forward as he listened to her talk about the neighbors from the old street, his face completely cleared of the iron stillness that usually kept the city at bay.
Bianca Vail had not returned. Her emerald silk scarf was still sitting in the cloakroom, forgotten in her frantic, silent exit through the front awning.
“You’re a madwoman, Mara,” Mr. Pell said, stepping into the station with a stack of signed credit receipts. His face was still a pale shade of gray, his fingers shaking slightly as he counted the cash tips. “You stood there and argued with the Vail family’s daughter in front of the Don. Do you know who her father is? He owns half the concrete plants on the South Side.”
“He doesn't own Bellafior, Mr. Pell,” Mara said, her fingers wiping a stray drop of tea from the silver tray. “And he doesn't own Mrs. Bellandi.”
“The Bellandis don't need you to fight their wars,” Pell hissed, leaning in until he smelled of stale coffee and anxiety. “Nico Bellandi has killed men for less than a misplaced word. You got lucky tonight because the old lady took a liking to your face. But tomorrow? When Bianca gets back into his ear? You’ll be looking for a job in a diner on Cicero Avenue.”
“She won't be getting back into his ear, Pell.”
The voice came from the darkened doorway leading to the main restaurant.
Nico Bellandi stepped into the kitchen light. He had removed his overcoat, but his three-piece suit was still immaculate, his tie straight, his hands tucked loosely into his trouser pockets. He looked around the kitchen with a slow, assessing gaze that made Elias drop an espresso spoon onto the tile floor with a loud clink.
Mr. Pell virtually dissolved into a bow. “Mr. Bellandi. I thought you had left through the garage. The service was to your satisfaction, I hope? We tried our best to ensure the privacy of the family—”
“Leave us, Pell,” Nico said.
The head waiter didn't look at Mara. He didn't even look at his cash. He grabbed Elias by the shoulder and disappeared into the service corridor so fast he nearly tripped over the linen bin.
The kitchen was left with nothing but the low hiss of the dishwasher and the smell of roasted garlic.
Nico walked over to the clean-up station. He looked down at the untouched chamomile tea, then at Mara, his eyes moving over her tired face, the faint line of flour on her sleeve, and the steady, unblinking way she returned his gaze.
“My mother wants you to have this,” Nico said, reaching into his vest pocket and pulling out a small, old-fashioned gold brooch shaped like a cicada, its eyes made of tiny, fabled seed pearls. “She said it belonged to her sister who died in Sicily. She said it’s for the woman who knows how to keep a name where it belongs.”
Mara did not reach for the gold. She kept her hands flat against the stainless steel counter. “I can’t accept that, Mr. Bellandi. It’s part of the service.”
“It’s not a tip, Mara,” Nico said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming rougher, more intimate. “It’s an acknowledgment. My mother spent forty years being pushed into the back of rooms by my father’s associates because she didn't have the right accent or the right dress. She knows the difference between a girl who is being polite for a hundred-dollar bill and a girl who has a spine.”
He set the brooch down on the silver tray beside the lemon twists. His finger brushed against hers for a fraction of a second—a brief, burning contact that felt like the wire of a live circuit touching bare steel.
“Bianca Vail will be calling the owner of this restaurant tomorrow morning to demand your termination,” Nico said, his eyes narrowing slightly. “She thinks her name still has weight in this district.”
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“Does it?” Mara asked.
Nico’s mouth twitched into something that might have been a smile if it hadn't been so cold. “I bought the building three hours ago, Mara. The lease for Bellafior is now held by a subsidiary of the Bellandi ledger. You aren't going to Cicero Avenue. You’re the new manager of private dining. Your salary doubles on Monday.”
