Chapter 6 - The Elegance of an Internal Threat
By June, the war between the Bellandis and the Vails had turned into a silent, suffocating siege that affected every restaurant, warehouse, and shipping dock from the Loop to the Indiana border.
Bellafior remained open, its private rooms booked every night by men whose names never appeared in the social columns but whose decisions governed the flow of fuel, fish, and municipal contracts through the Midwest.
Mara had moved her desk from the boiler room to the small mezzanine office that looked down over the main dining room. She had learned to recognize the signs of trouble before they reached the door—the extra car parked across the street, the server who took too long to clear a table, the customer who didn't touch his wine.
On a rainy Thursday night, the restaurant was completely full when the brass bell over the front entrance rang three times in rapid succession.
Mara looked through the glass window of her office.
Bianca Vail stepped into the lobby. She was no longer wearing the emerald silk dress; she wore a sharp, tailored white coat, her copper hair pinned back so tightly it looked like a metal helmet. Behind her came her father, Arthur Vail—a massive man with a face like a slab of salt-cured pork and a gold-headed cane that he dragged across the marble tile with a loud, rhythmic clack.
Mr. Pell virtually turned inside out trying to block their path, but Arthur Vail simply used the head of his cane to press the head waiter against the mahogany host stand.
“Where is Nico?” Arthur demanded, his voice like a broken muffler.
Mara was down the stairs before Pell could answer. She stepped between Arthur Vail and the main dining room, her black dress professional, her hands clasped loosely in front of her waist.
“Mr. Vail,” Mara said, her voice clear enough to carry over the low murmur of the dinner crowd. “Your reservation was for last month. Tonight, the private rooms are fully committed.”
Bianca stepped forward, her blue eyes fixed on Mara with an expression of pure, unadulterated venom. “Get out of the way, Lane. This isn't a seating dispute. My father is here to see the landlord.”
“The landlord is at the head table, Bianca,” Nico’s voice came from the shadows of the corner alcove.
He stepped into the light of the lobby, a crystal tumbler of Scotch in his hand. He was alone, but the moment he appeared, Rocco and three other men stepped out from the coatroom, their coats unbuttoned, their hands resting loosely near their belts.
Arthur Vail turned his heavy bulk toward Nico. “You think you’re a big man now, Bellandi? You think because you bought this brick pile you can run my trucks off the North Side? My family built the foundations of this city while your father was still selling cheap oil out of a wagon.”
“Your father built the foundations with my family’s money, Arthur,” Nico said, his voice dropping into that terrifying, flat register that made the room go small. “And your daughter tried to move my mother to the back of my house. That was a bad investment.”
“She’s an old woman!” Bianca cried out, her composure finally cracking, her face turning an ugly shade of red beneath her powder. “She’s a peasant who doesn't even know how to use the correct silver! She belongs in a cottage in the hills, Nico, not at the head of a table on Michigan Avenue!”
The silence that followed her remark was absolute. Even the clinking of knives in the main dining room seemed to stop.
Mara didn't look at Nico. She walked over to the host stand, picked up a fresh, white linen napkin, and walked over to Bianca. She held it out to her.
“Your makeup is running, Miss Vail,” Mara said, her voice smooth as cream. “And in this restaurant, we don't allow people to scream at the landlord unless they’ve paid their bill.”
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Arthur Vail lifted his cane as if to strike Mara, but before the wood could clear the air, Nico’s hand shot out. He caught the cane by the gold head, his grip so powerful the metal groaned. He twisted his wrist, and Arthur Vail was forced down onto his knees on the marble floor, his heavy face twisting with sudden, agonizing pain.
“If you ever lift that wood near this woman again, Arthur,” Nico whispered, leaning down until his lips were inches from the old man’s ear, “I’ll use your concrete to fill the basement of your own house while you’re still inside it. Now take your daughter and get out of my restaurant.”
