Page 4 of Above ’N’ Beyond

The smells of garlic and basil wafted into the dining room as one of the temp waitresses carried trays of plated food past the bar. Bella’s mouth watered. In the interest of losing a few pounds, the only thing she’d eaten today was a small baggie of baby carrot sticks. So unsatisfying.

Her empty stomach took that moment to protest loudly, gurgling enough to make her cringe and pray no one heard the noise that sounded like a tiny dog growling. Womankind is not meant to live on rabbit food. Owning an Italian restaurant…not helping. Like, seriously not helping.

Bella poured glasses of Chianti and set them on the bar. Her regular bartender had banged out for the next couple of weeks to help care for his father, who’d fallen and broken his hip.

Sierra, another waitress and Bella’s best friend, set down her empty tray and began transferring the glasses of Chianti Bella had put there. “Three more house Chianti, two Pino Grigio, and Tony wants another bottle of that Pierazzuoli Chianti Montalbano Riserva.”

“Of course he does.” Considering the Pierazzuoli was one of the priciest bottles the Bistro offered.

Sighing, Bella grabbed another bottle from the locked cooler behind the bar where the finer wines she’d handpicked on her last trip to Italy were stored. Where Tony and Paola were concerned, she didn’t bother hiding her sarcasm from Sierra and her husband, Lou. They were the only ones she could safely voice her concerns to without fear of retribution. Paola and Tony might be her blood, but for all they really cared about her, she might as well be an orphan.

As she cut off the wrapper, Bella glared at the corner table in the back of the dining room where Tony and his crew enjoyed yet another meal on the house. Since getting released from prison, her cousin had been dining at the Bistro nearly every day and sucking down so many bottles of her best wine, she’d lost count. In her mind, all she saw were dollars flying out the window.

“You’re happy he’s finally out, though. Aren’t you?” Sierra asked.

Tony caught her gaze and held it for a moment before winking.

Bella sighed again as she twisted in the corkscrew. “Of course I am.” She really had missed him. If nothing else, he was a bridge between her and her aunt.

Years ago, she and Paola had been close. When Bella’s parents had died, Paola had stepped in as Bella’s mother. Now that she fully understood who and what Paola was, their relationship had become strained.

She pulled the cork from the bottle with a loud pop and set it on Sierra’s tray. “There you go. More profit down the drain.”

“Cheer up. At least we’re still in the black.” Sierra hefted the tray and headed for Tony’s table.

“Right,” Bella whispered to herself. “In the black.” But was that because of the restaurant she’d created, or was it due to her aunt’s mystical reputation as “The Godmother”?

Once the rumors had taken hold, Paola had become a celebrity, much like John Gotti, attracting people who sucked up to her to the point where they looked ready to get down on one knee and kiss that enormous gaudy ring she wore.

Bella picked up a cloth and began wiping down the bar. A customer at the far end, a man with slightly curly reddish-brown hair, held up his empty beer glass. She pulled a clean glass from beneath the bar and flipped down the beer tap. While the glass filled, she looked around the dining room and couldn’t help but smile.

The Bistro was hectic, loud, and downright insane at times, but she—not her aunt—had created it, designing every single component from the ground up, including the elegant menu.

A faux paint treatment made the walls look like aged, ochre-colored plaster. Tables with white cloths and red napkins were crammed closely together on a classic black-and-white checkerboard tile floor. For two of the walls, she’d commissioned a local artist to paint Italian landscapes with bright red poppies and sunflowers for vivid pops of color. The back wall was original exposed brick, against which stood stately wood and wrought-iron wine racks, along with the small oak bar.

To give the Bistro a luxurious atmosphere, she’d sewn heavy red velvet drapery to flank the entry and kitchen doors. Strategically placed reproduction iron streetlights arched over the tables. An occasional ficus tree provided a bit of privacy, and several devil’s vines that had grown to more than twenty feet long had been hooked here and there on the ceiling and walls. The overall look was not only bright and cheery but gave the Bistro an outdoor feel she’d been striving for.

The Bistro was beautiful, and it was hers. At least partly. She was the one who’d studied hard at culinary school in Italy. She was the one who, along with Lou, created the ever-changing menus using fresh, locally sourced produce and other products. And she was the one who’d put her heart and soul into the Bistro, hired the staff, managed the place six days a week. Still, it wasn’t hers. Not solely, anyway. What had Paola ever contributed?

Money.

When the Bistro’s primo location in Nyack had come up for sale, Bella was short the funds to buy it. Now that she had enough saved to buy out her aunt, Paola kept refusing to sign over her share like she’d once promised.

Beer spilled over the rim of the glass, dripping everywhere and creating a wet mess. Like my life. She poured off the excess, then wiped the glass dry.

She delivered the beer to the customer, then grabbed a dry rag to clean up the mess she’d made. Raised voices came from a table Sierra waited on. The group of suits from one of the local banks was getting more unruly and louder with each glass of wine they pounded down. The customer was always right. Well, most of the time.

She wasn’t against cutting them off, but alcohol wasn’t their only problem. They were obnoxious, entitled guys who enjoyed throwing their weight around, even at the expense of the waitresses. Sierra’s lips twisted into a frown, and she stepped back from the table. Or tried to. One of the men put his arm around her waist, preventing her from escaping.

Bella threw down the rag. This was fixing to be one of the moments when the customer wasn’t always right. She headed for the rowdy table when the front door opened.

A man stood on the threshold, his intense gaze scanning the dining room. The guy was tall. Really tall, with only a few inches between the top of his head and the door casing. Broad shoulders nearly filled the rest of the doorway. Thick dark-brown hair hung to just below his ears, and a short, slightly pointed beard graced his chin. Satan was the name that came to mind. The urge to touch such a handsome face warred with her instinct to keep a healthy distance from that kind of brutal masculinity.

Completely absorbed in eyeing the man, Bella practically slammed into a ficus.

“Let me go,” Sierra gritted out, trying to extricate herself from Mr. Smarmy’s tight arm around her waist.

When Smarmy’s wandering hand slid to Sierra’s ass, Bella was ready to slam a tray over the guy’s head.