Chapter 13 - THREE MONTHS LATER
Sophia went back to work.
Not at Veluto.
She couldn’t.
Too many memories lived at Table Nine.
Instead, she took a job in a small restaurant in the Bronx and started saving money.
Anthony entered a gambling recovery program.
For the first month, Sophia didn’t trust him.
She checked his bank statements.
Called his sponsor.
Counted the days.
Then she realized she was turning his recovery into her full-time job.
So she stopped.
“If you want to stay sober,” she told him, “you do the work.”
Anthony nodded.
“I will.”
“If you gamble again, I won’t save you.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
For the first time, he actually seemed to.
Elena called Sophia every Sunday.
Every Sunday.
“You are too thin.”
“I gained four pounds.”
“Wrong pounds.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. Come eat.”
Dante never called.
Not once.
That surprised Sophia.
Then it impressed her.
She had asked for distance.
He gave it to her.
No flowers.
No black SUVs.
No mysterious checks.
No men watching her apartment.
At least none she could see.
One Sunday, Elena came to the Bronx restaurant.
She hated it instantly.
“The chairs are criminal.”
“They’re chairs.”
“The sauce is sweet.”
“It’s popular.”
“So is stupidity.”
Sophia laughed.
Elena slid an envelope across the table.
“What is this?”
“Open it.”
Inside was a lease agreement for a tiny restaurant space in Brooklyn.
Sophia stared.
“No.”
“Elena—”
“My husband bought the building in 1987. It has been empty for six months.”
“I can’t take this.”
“You are not taking it. You are renting it.”
“For how much?”
Elena named a number.
Sophia nearly choked.
“That’s below market.”
“I am old. My math is bad.”
“Your math is terrifyingly good.”
Elena smiled.
“Sophia.”
Her voice softened.
“You spent years cleaning up your father’s mistakes.”
Sophia looked down.
“Maybe it is time to build something that belongs to you.”
Three months later, Sophia opened a small restaurant.
She called it Teresa’s.
After her grandmother.
Twenty tables.
No chandeliers.
No dress code.
No one whispered anybody’s name.
Anthony helped paint the walls.
Enzo installed a security system “because Brooklyn is unpredictable.”
Elena redesigned the entire menu without permission.
Opening night sold out.
Sophia was exhausted and happy.
At eleven thirty, the last customers left.
She wiped down Table Nine.
She had numbered it that way on purpose.
A private joke.
Then she noticed an envelope beneath the plate.
No name.
Inside was a reservation card.
TABLE NINE.
SUNDAY.
7:00 P.M.
ONE GUEST.
On the back, someone had written:
May you like
NO CONTRACTS.
Sophia didn’t need a signature.
