“She made an asset case tonight.”
“She can pay principal.”
“I didn’t ask what she can do. I asked what the contract allows.”
Nella closed her hand around the edge of the cash drawer.
Uncle Sal continued. “By noon, I want the default packet with your signature on it: full acceleration, penalties, collateral review, and the lease language. If you don’t send it, don’t come back to Jersey expecting my protection.”
Nella met my eyes across the counter.
I didn’t look away.
“Do you understand me?” Uncle Sal asked.
“I understand,” I said.
“Good. Noon.”
The call ended.
My phone screen went black.
Across the counter, Nella stood with tomato sauce on her apron and the open cash drawer between us. Uncle Sal wanted my signature by noon.
I looked at the money she’d earned, then at the woman he wanted me to break.
By noon, I either signed away Nella’s bar, or I stopped being the family’s collector.
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, curaçao, 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.
