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ENZO
Two days later,and the four of us are on fucking fire. An appeal for signatures went out to both Livvy’s and our mailing lists, and I think we’ve already got all we need to make a very strong point to City Hall—that our businesses belong here, and whatever the hell the developer has up his sleeve, does not.
And yet, there’s no room for resting on laurels. We’re not taking a damn thing for granted. I don’t want to sound paranoid, but if you get as close as we did to losing it all like we did, when you finally decide to strike back, you do it without mercy.
On the last night of our street festivities, as things wind down, there are still a lot of neighborhood stragglers and other folks like our lawyer hanging around who we talked into helping us finish up the leftover food and wine. It’s so kick-ass to hang out in the street on a beautiful night, getting to know a lot of the folks I never see because I’m hidden away in the kitchen all the time.
Yup, we pulled out the big guns. I even brought my nonna on the last day. I think she got more signatures than any of us. No big surprise there. She’s impossible to say no to.
Mrs. Perkins, who already told me it’s unlikely she’ll be by EastSide because she doesn’t like our food, has been instrumental. Turns out you get a little pit bull like her on your side, and there’s nothing that can’t be accomplished. She even showed up with her naughty Sinbad in tow, stuffed into some gondolier outfit and miniature boat on wheels. The block is buzzing, signatures flowing like wine, and I could not be more proud of our amazing community.
Not to mention my friends and the lovely Livvy, who’s regained the vibrant glow that attracted me to her in the first place. Not that she’d become any less than her beautiful self, but there was no denying the defeat in her eyes, which is now, thankfully, gone.
As we’re talking and laughing, who should show up but Mister Moneybags Developer himself and his bought-and-paid-for minion—city councilperson Bartlett. The developer’s pissed, especially when I serve him a bowl of my ‘no deal dumplings,’ which he didn’t know were named after him until he’d devoured a couple.
Fancy that, he’s mad because he inspired a dish? Actually, an entire menu?
Shit, most people would be proud. But then, most people have a sense of humor.
He makes the mistake of leaning over to say something to Weston, as if they are buds or something. I have no idea what until Weston decides to repeat it for the crowd.
He stretches to his full height and waves for everyone’s attention. When the talking dies down, he really sticks it to the man. “Everybody, our friend the developer here just whispered in my ear he’s going to sue our asses off. Now, is that a nice thing to say to people who just gave you free food and wine?”
A slow booing flits through the crowd as our lawyer speaks up. “I’m gonna warn you right now I’ve had a couple glasses of wine, so I’m not feeling my most professional, but can I just say, buddy, that you are full ofshit?”
A roar swoops through the crowd, a level of noise I didn’t realize this group of people could make.
“Go home, creep.”
“Who invited that guy, anyway?”
“What a killjoy. Beat it, buddy, before we show you the door.”
But my nonna seals the deal. “Young man, you should be ashamed of yourself, messing with a nice neighborhood like this. Now skedaddle home before I kick your ass all the way there.”
That’s my nonna.
Bartlett Murray, a man looking for the easy way out if I’ve ever seen one, inches away from the developer, then turns around and leaves, all elbows and ass as he picks up speed. The last I see of him is rounding a corner with a final glimpse over his shoulder to see if anyone’s following him.
What a ridiculous man.
As the crowd thins out and my uncle takes my nonna back home, Livvy turns to me, her eyes shiny with tears, the static between us is too electric to ignore. I pull her to me in an emotional kiss, and Owen nods his head in the direction of his apartment, where we all set out to.
“I… I don’t know how to thank you guys,” Livvy says when we arrive, her voice breaking.
Owen’s little cat—I mean hismother’scat—rubs against our legs like she’s celebrating too.
Livvy bends to pick her up. “Look, I don’t like to ‘out’ people, but Owe, when are you gonna just admit this little cutie is yours and not your mother’s?” She’s trying not to laugh.
“Whatever,” he says, throwing his arms up in the air. He takes the cat from her just in time for Weston to swoop in.
Jesus, the man’s already kicked off his shoes and socks. He’s wasting no time.
Why the hell would he?
51
LIVVY
