“No,” Angelo agreed. “But I still have a few busboys in my pocket.”
Michelle rolled her eyes and stripped off her coat, only wanting to grab a shower and collapse against the sheets. But she stood before her father and waited for his pronouncement.
“So, I should just roll over for the Parisis?” she asked.
“Don’t say it like that,” Angelo insisted, struggling to stand, and reaching for his cane. Michelle moved to his side to steady him, remembering the many times that they worked in the kitchen together, often at odds, until his speech slowed, and the right side of his body went numb.
“Easy, Pop,” she urged.
“I’m fine,” he insisted.
“Much better than you were,” she countered. “But you still have a long way to go.”
“And the bills just keep rolling in. They don’t wait for a stroke.”
Which is why he went to Adamo Parisi for help. Which is why she had to deal with the whiz kid now.
“I just don’t want him telling me how to plan my menu,” Michelle said as she eased her father back into his chair and freshened his drink, already in her familiar caregiver mode.
“Maybe he has some good ideas,” Angelo offered.
Michelle dropped the glass. It bounced but did not shatter against the rug. Three cubes of ice started to melt in her hand.
“I didn’t come this far to take orders from someone like him.”
“Watch yourself,” Angelo warned, trying to stand again.
“No. I had things well in hand.”
“We were hemorrhaging cash,” he argued.
“But you didn’t even give me a chance to make it all right.”
Angelo’s breaths came out in withered rasps as he managed to stand once more. He looked as if he might fold in on himself when Michelle hurried to his side and held his arms.
“I’m sorry, Pop,” she whispered. “I know you were just trying to do the right thing.”
“To save all that I built,” he said, accepting his daughter’s hug. For her part, Michelle wanted things as they were. No. Better than before. His stroke, while horrible, seemed to soften the old man somewhat. Might he be her perfect father now?
“Show me a smile?” he asked, tweaking her nose.
She honored the request. “Pop, what am I going to do with you?”
“Keep cooking,” he said before hugging her again. “Tonight wasn’t really all that bad, was it?”
“No,” she admitted. “He threw his weight around a bit. Then he took off.”
“So, it was business as usual.”
“Yes,” Michelle admitted as she pulled away and ran her hands over her face. “But…”
“But what?” Angelo asked, firmly grasping the cane, and limping after her.
“But… he had a point.”
“He did?”
Michelle replaced her father’s drink, picked up the remnants of the one that she had dropped, and found another glass. Into which she poured a very generous shot of vodka. Choking it down, she fell into the sofa and threw her free hand in the air.
“He said I should focus on pasta and the sauce,” he said. “Like that’s so original for an Italian joint.”
“Point taken,” Angelo said, limping to her side before settling down beside her. “But you know—”
“Pop, don’t.”
“Michelle, the recipe is second to none,” Angelo said. “And haven’t I always said that you should just go old school and stop wasting your time with the hipster—”
“But the hipsters are the ones who can pay now,” Michelle said, starting to stand but ultimately bringing her head to rest on her pop’s shoulder.
“And don’t you think that the Ivy Leaguer might have something to say about that?”
Michelle sighed. There was no turning back the clock. Her father was ill, they needed the money, and now there was Lorenzo Parisi in their midst.
But…
“I thought you were partial to Fiorenza.”
Angelo looked nervous at the mention of the other man’s name. He clutched his cane tighter as he shook his head. “Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise,” Angelo muttered.
“What do you mean by that, Pop?”
“That… maybe you’re in better hands now. I don’t want to keep talking about it.”
“But if it’s a danger to the restaurant, then we have to—”
“They think I’m weak now,” Angelo spat out. “Let’s keep it that way.”
Michelle had seen Fiorenza’s crew muscling their way into the kitchen, threatening Rodolfo, and leering in her direction. By contrast, Lorenzo might be a better bet.
“But I still don’t understand—”
“You don’t have to,” Angelo said. “Just listen to the college boy and leave it at that.”
A part of Michelle wanted to keep arguing the point, but she held her tongue and headed toward her bedroom. Her father held onto his antiquated notions of women and business and she knew he was way too old to change his mind now. Finding her mattress covered in the afghan knitted by her mother, she curled toward the pillows and thought of the “college boy.”
He was pleasing to look at. His voice was smooth and strong. Maybe she had made the wrong call by using his nickname too soon, trying to get a rise out of him. Turning to her back, she recalled something her mother had said so many years go.
Better the devil you know…
She knew that her father had fallen in too deep with Fiorenza’s crew until the stroke cut him off at the knees. At least Fiorenza and his men had the decency to leave her father alone at that point. But then Michelle realized that the empty tables from night to night were only kept afloat by the hope of running up tabs and busting him out. That wish seemed a lost cause when she started cooking, hence his turn to the Parisis.
And although Lorenzo played at being tough, he was worlds away from his brothers, who were roamed about streets and handled the family business. Even then, Michelle couldn’t help but scorn the likes of Val and Frankie Smiles. Lorenzo, Enzo, was far more intriguing. He was the one who had broken free from the cycle and who might work his way in the world as a banker or an investment guru or something. She had seen him once or twice or believed that much. Now, here he was, back in Brooklyn and looking to hold watch over her eatery.
But was that a strike against him or evidence that he was someone to be trusted?
“Mich?”
She turned her head away from the blanket at the sound of her father’s voice, and she scooted toward the edge of the bed.
“Mich, I’m sorry.”
Angelo looked weary as he lingered in the doorframe, and Michelle forgot her fears as she reached for her father’s hands.
“I know, Pop,” she said. “And you think it’s the best move.”
“I asked Adamo to send the college boy around when I needed his help.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Because it seemed like the best bet.”
To be fair, Enzo hadn’t denied that trust thus far. Michelle was still unsure if she could trust him. But maybe it was best to make friends.
“He hasn’t been horrible. At least so far.”