by Cat Porter
Mauro had tried to oppress me and destroy me, but it was my heart that had remained, and my heart had made a choice.
Resurrected, yes. Liberated. Empowered.
Folding over the sheet of paper, I lifted my head, taking in the hundreds of faces, breathing in the bittersweet hush in the vast cathedral that waited on me. In the very back, against the wall, I spotted him. That know-it-all smirk of his saying, Salut, fucker. Luca Aliberti. Next to him a man who was a darker, meaner mix of Luca and Alessio. Their older brother, Emilio.
Luca would now sit at a Guardino business meeting instead of me, and he would take the heat, distract, and Emilio would conquer, destroy, usurp. I would be their silent partner.
Luca and Emilio left the church, and I tucked the poem in my inside jacket pocket.
Stin iyiá mas.
54
Turo
I went straight to Erin’s hospital room from the church once the service was done and the condolences had been dished out. She’d been conscious about four hours already, and I couldn’t wait to see her myself. To talk to her.
I took her hands in mine and told her about James. She’d turned her face into the pillow and cried silent tears.
“I’m so sorry, Mom. So sorry. He didn’t deserve that.” I held on to her, her breathing choppy. I told her about the funeral, and she was distraught that it had happened without her.
“He did this, he did this…” she hiccuped.
“It’s over, Mom.”
“It won’t ever be over, Turo. He’ll never—”
“It’s done.”
She gripped my arms, her eyes searching mine. “What are you saying?” she breathed.
I leaned in closer to her. “He won’t ever come after us again.”
Her face paled, her lips opened as if she had something urgent to say.
I slanted my head, shaking it once, twice. “Don’t.”
She shut her eyes, wincing. Her head fell into my chest, and I held her, and we grieved for our transgressions and our might have beens. Together, we sank into some sort of gentle, hazy relief.
I handed her a bottle of her favorite water from the side table and she drank. “I didn’t want you to have to do this. That’s not what I wanted,” she said.
“For you to have asked for my help in the first place, that meant things had gotten extreme.”
“Yes but—”
“He’d been threatening you for years and you never told me.”
“I had to protect you. But I failed because eventually he got to you.”
I pressed my lips together. “He tried to have me killed the other day. The next day he hit you at the restaurant. So don’t mourn the man you think your son should have been.”
Her eyes blazed. “He tried to kill you?”
“Set me up. But things worked out quite differently.”
She threw her arms around me. “I love you,” she whispered into my neck.
“I love you too,” I whispered back, my heartbeat steadying in my chest in a way that it hadn’t in a long time.
“Your first Mediterranean restaurant? How did that happen?” I asked my mother, changing the subject, changing it forever.
She leaned back into her bank of pillows and wiped at her eyes. “The Mediterranean diet is huge now. Two islands in Greece, in particular, have attracted serious attention from scientists as well as tourists. Greek food is much, much more than souvlaki and moussaka. They have their own rich tradition of appetizers, like tapas—mezé, they call it. Their sense of simplicity with seafood, with grilling, the herbs they use, their olive oils. They have an incredible variety of vegetarian dishes too. It’s all about what’s in—”
“In season.”
“Yes. In season, exactly.” She let out that knowing, rolling laugh of hers. It had been a long time since I’d heard it, felt those particular sparks go off in my gut. This was us in sync in the workplace, in sync as people. I never realized how much I valued that until right this moment.
I cleared my throat. “Actually, since we last saw each other, I’ve been to Greece, would you believe?” I said.
“Really? Lucky you.”
“Yeah, very lucky,” I murmured, my gaze going to the sea of tall, metal and glass buildings scraping dense, gray clouds out the window.
“How ironic, but very fortunate for the new restaurant,” she said.
I met my mother’s eyes once more. “Tell me everything about the new restaurant.”
She told me, until the nurse kicked me out a few hours later.
I kept myself busy, pouring over details of the restaurant, from replacing the destroyed fixtures, to overseeing the cleaning and restoration from the fire, smoke, and water damage. Staff training picked up again. We’d be ready to open. Maybe forty days after Erin’s originally planned date, but we’d open.
Every morning at home, I amused myself with an espresso reading the newspaper reports about the investigation into the destruction of the Guardino crime family, the chaos, the disarray left behind. How the bomb used at Sal’s salumeria had the signature of the Smoking Guns, an infamous motorcycle club associated with the Tantucci Outfit. Arrests had been made, and multiple investigations by local police and the FBI were under way.
Finger had killed his bird with our mutual stone.
I didn’t hear from Luca again. I continued to be “distraught” over my boss’s demise and kept very busy running my mother’s company during her recovery and being with her at the hospital and then the rehab facility. From what I read in the paper, from what my former right-hand man, Paul, had told me, Emilio was cleaning house and holding the reins tightly in his fist. Paul also told me that the new boss was going to dissolve my operation.
“Really? I think I’ll make him an offer,” I’d told him.
Of course, that had already been agreed on between me and Luca, but we had to make it look good for everyone else. Luckily, I could afford to buy.
“So, you’re out now?” Paul asked after the deal was done.
“Aliberti is consolidating and cutting the fat. I bought the gig for a hefty price, but it was worth it to me. I’ll be paying him a protection fee, of course, but it’s all mine. He’s bringing in his own people, reorganizing. He’s not going to trust me. Anyway, I’m very busy with my mother’s company right now. The timing is right for me to move on. Believe me, I know I’m lucky to be able to move on.”
“Yeah, sure.” Paul shifted his weight.
“Thanks for everything you’ve done for me, Paul. I told Aliberti that you’ve been solid. That he can rely on you.”
“‘Preciate it, Turo.” We hugged, slapping each other on the back.
Over lunch at my mother’s steakhouse, I told Tricia that I’d bought the escort business outright and offered her a choice.
“You want to stick with me and this business or you want out?” I asked, cutting into my rare rib eye.
She put down her fork and oversized steak knife. “What kind of question is that? Of course I’m sticking with you. Fuck yes! Does this mean we can make those changes we’ve discussed?”
We’d wanted to go upscale for a long time. Less in and out whore for the ordinary john, more highly qualified escort experience for the client who could appreciate and could pay.
“All the changes.”
Her face beamed, a beacon cutting through the fog. “Waiter!” She ordered a bottle of Bollinger.
Today I was finally sitting down with Dean, the chef of the new Greek restaurant, in his new kitchen.
Dean was a Greek American in his twenties who’d worked in New York and Athens for a summer and had returned to his Chicago roots. He was relieved that I was committed to opening. We reviewed his different menu plans for the coming months, discussed his culinary vision as he cooked for me in the kitchen.
“Erin has been amazing, really supportive,” he said as he plated three large grilled shrimp on a long, bright blue dish and scattered oregano over them, then flakes of salt. “Sh
e has her opinions, I have mine. We don’t always agree, but she’s always willing to listen. It’s obvious that she’s dedicated to great food and great service, not just making a splash and a buck.” He drizzled olive oil over the shrimp. “And that’s been huge for me in this whole crazy process.”
“This is your first restaurant, right?”
“Yeah.” He let out a breath of air as he wiped the edges of the plate. “In here I know what I’m doing, what I need to do. Out there—” he slanted his head toward the dining room, “—not so sure. Not yet at least.” He slid the plate before me.
“How’d you come up with the name ‘Porto’?” I asked, peeling back the shell on the shrimp, my mouth watering at the sight of the perfectly cooked texture, the grilled aroma.
“Erin did. Although it’s the Italian word for ‘port’ there are a lot of Greek beach towns named Porto this or that, so it implies seafood, which is a big focus of what we’re doing here. Erin liked the idea of a harbor beckoning the weary traveler to enter, and when he does, he passes through this “portal” into a completely new and brilliant world of flavor and taste.”
My mother the romantic poet, my mother the sharp, mature businesswoman supporting her artists in the right way. A flutter of emotion streaked through me at Dean’s words, at the creamy tenderness of the shrimp filling my mouth, the perfect burst of sea fresh and sweetness. I swallowed down a crisp white wine from the island of Lemnos that Dean had poured for me earlier, and I savored the satisfying swirl of warmth it left behind.
I wiped my mouth with a napkin. “I like the name Porto. It’s evocative multilingually. Smart.”
“Right?” Dean planted his elbows on the counter. “And how do you like my shrimp?”
“Also very evocative. What kind of salt are you using?”
His eyebrows quirked up his forehead. “What kind?”
“Yes.”
“It’s top notch fleur de sel.”
“From France?”
“Uh, yeah. I’ve also got Peruvian pink on hand, have you tried it? It’s just amazing, it’s—”
“No.”
“No?”
“I was on the island of Andros recently, and their natural sea salt is very special. You need to be using Greek sea salt. Find it, order what you need. You speak Greek?”
“I get by.”
“Good.” I wiped my fingers on the napkin. “I’m heading over to the hospital in half an hour to see my mother. Make her lunch and I’ll bring it over. She must be suffering.”
Dean let out a laugh, his eyes lighting up. “I’ll bet she is.”
Sure enough, once I got to the hospital, a nurse flagged me in the hallway. “She won’t eat. She needs to eat.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
I entered my mother’s room. “I hope you haven’t already eaten, because I brought lunch from your new chef.” I placed the full shopping bag on her bed.
A smile of true pleasure lit her face as I handed her the boxes and she opened them. Grilled sea bass and garlicky stewed chickpeas. A salad of baby arugula and spinach topped with a grilled soft white cheese.
She bit into the cheese. “You see? There’s more to Greek cheese than just feta.”
I laughed. “I know.” I unwrapped the silverware from the restaurant’s cloth napkin and handed it to her. “You wouldn’t believe the cheese I had over there.”
“I think I would.” She sliced into the roasted fish and ate. “So good. Have you tried? Dig in.” She handed me the fork and I ate.
I handed the fork back to her. “That’s good.”
“You didn’t happen to bring any wine, did you?”
“No wine, Erin. Not yet.”
She made a face. We ate, and I cleared the mess. I adjusted her pillows for her and she leaned back. “Tell me more about Greece. Did you see the Parthenon? Did you have a chance to go to an island?”
I told her about all the touristy things I’d managed to do.
Her eyes narrowed at me. “Did you meet someone?”
“Why?”
“There’s this wistful quality to the way you told me about the island. And you’re not the wistful type.”
“Wistful?”
“Hmm. Then there’s Marissa telling me how invested you are in every detail of the restaurant from the font we chose for the menu to the light bulbs, to the food, especially the food. Every damned detail.”
“Did you think I’d become some raging bureaucrat only interested in the bottom line?”
She touched my arm. “No. Your attention to detail always pleased me.”
I put my hand over hers. “The entire team is committed to the opening. That’s my only focus. You need to focus on getting stronger so they’ll let you out of here sooner rather than later.”
“Okay,” she whispered, and my heart squeezed in my chest. This was vulnerable Erin, grateful Erin. An Erin I hadn’t experienced in I don’t know how long.
“Okay.”
“So, is she Greek?”
I grit my teeth. “Erin.”
Saying her name would conjure Adri before my eyes, here in this hospital room. Something I hadn’t allowed myself. With everything going on, I’d pushed her into a vault and locked her up tight, so I could concentrate on the tasks at hand. But she was real. And I fucking missed her.
“Her name is Adriana.”
“What a beautiful name.”
“She is very beautiful.”
I told my mother about Adri, about meeting her, the yacht, Mykonos, the getaway to Andros, all the damned food, all the wine.
None of the blood.
“Andros sounds extraordinary,” she said. “I’m glad you had that. And to have experienced it with someone you care about.”
I opened my mouth to say something, to refute as would have been my usual response. But there was nothing to refute. Only that my feelings for Adri went beyond mere caring, didn’t they? An ache that had begun to hurt as the days wore on had rooted itself deep in my chest and would not be plucked like some weed. Unyielding and strong.
“Turo, you can’t hide it. You can’t. Oh, look at that—” Her voice softened considerably and she touched my chin, and her hand slid down my arm and squeezed.
“Mother, stop.”
“No, honey. You and I, we’re done with stopping and not discussing the important things. We have a lot of catching up to do, and we’re going to do it.”
Marissa and I met at seven in the morning three times a week organizing ourselves and maintaining the company’s flow. The first weeks of my full-time management, I’d met with each department director, toured each restaurant at lunch, cocktail hour, dinner time and during the day, spoke with the chefs, the managers, the bartenders. I wanted them to see the face, feel my handshake, hear my voice. Be assured that Erin’s ship was under firm command.
Most evenings I spent at the different restaurants, having meals, checking on quality, watching the staff in action with either Marissa or Tricia or many times on my own. On one of those evenings, Charlotte, the attractive blonde sommelier at the steakhouse, propositioned me.
She stood close to me at the bar where I was nursing a Cabernet. I could smell her sweet perfume, noticed the tip of her tongue skirting her matte red lips. I knew it was coming, and yet, I had no reaction—no swell of heat, no tick of the pulse or shift of the cock, no smug satisfaction at the thick, expectant attention from such an attractive woman.
Charlotte slid her empty wine glass to the side. “I get off work in an hour. I’d love to show you this terrific wine bar in River North. They have an incredible new selection of reds from Latin America I think you’d really like.”
“No, thank you. I have an early day tomorrow.”
“Oh, okay.” Her lips pursed and she stood up straight. “Well, have a good night, then.”
“You too, Charlotte.”
She wasn’t the only woman who tried. There was a restaurant hostess, a special events planner, a bartender, a lawyer from t
he Mayor’s office. But all their pheromones were an unscented mist. Their flirting, teasing, grins—no power, nothing.
No, not nothing. Their attempts didn’t entertain me, nor did they please me, they only set off an ache, a literal pain in the center of my body that radiated through me. It was acute, this pain. It hurt.
I walked home, alone on the streets in the hustle of a Chicago Saturday night and stopped at a bookstore to get a copy of The New York Times. Foreign magazines lined two shelves by the cashier. British gossip magazines with royals and soccer studs and models on the cover. “What are the young, beautiful, and rich shopping for this summer?” trumpeted one magazine cover. A photo of a young English royal holding a bright pink leather designer bag and another of a singer’s embroidered denim jacket. Her face jumped off the glossy periodical at me. Blood rushed to my head, my mouth dried.
A photo of Adri in a long, dark linen coat, flat sandals, her hair loose, lips painted burgundy, black sunglasses, her arm through Marko’s who was holding several Burberry shopping bags, his hair much longer than the last time I’d seen him. I grabbed the magazine.
Rifling through it, I finally found the inane article, but there was only one other photo of Adri and Marko—the two of them getting into a chauffeured car outside a restaurant with a mention of how she was keeping a quiet profile since her and Marko’s return to London. I flipped back to the cover photo again. I’d bet she knew she was being photographed; her stride was confident, head tilted toward her brother, mid conversation, a slight smile on both their faces. She was not giving a fuck, she was living, doing her thing.
The way it should be.
I tucked the magazine back on the shelf, tucking that sudden wave of emotion back inside. My hands settled in the pockets of my jacket, my fingers finding that talisman that I took with me everywhere.
Outside, the buildings and damp streets flared with light from the huge store windows, blinking traffic lights, the flow of cars. I looked up at the sky. No crown of stars visible. No stars at all. Rubbing a hand around the back of my neck, I headed home.