Chapter 6 - Dinner With the Morettis
Adrian took me to a tiny Italian restaurant in Lincoln Park.
No private room.
No velvet ropes.
No Moretti-owned building.
At least according to him.
Halfway through dinner, I noticed an older man sitting alone three tables away behind a newspaper.
I stared.
“Is that your father?”
Adrian didn't turn around.
“No.”
“Adrian.”
“No.”
“Vincent.”
The newspaper lowered.
Vincent looked offended.
“What?”
I pointed toward the door.
“Out.”
“I was already here.”
“You hate this restaurant.”
“How would you know?”
“Because you've complained about the coffee twice.”
Adrian covered his face.
Vincent folded his newspaper.
“I was ensuring your safety.”
“You have four men outside.”
“Five.”
“Go home.”
Vincent stood.
“Fine.”
He walked past our table.
Then leaned toward Adrian.
“Don't screw this up.”
“Dad.”
Vincent looked at me.
“You can do better.”
“Dad!”
Vincent smiled and left.
I burst out laughing.
Adrian stared at the ceiling.
“I'm moving to another country.”
“He loves you.”
“He terrorizes me.”
“Same thing in your family?”
“Basically.”
Dinner lasted three hours.
We talked about everything except organized crime.
He told me he had spent years trying to move the Moretti businesses away from the world his father had inherited.
I told him about growing up outside Milwaukee, losing my father, and coming to Chicago with my mother.
He asked what I wanted.
Nobody had asked me that in years.
“I don't know.”
“Anything.”
I thought about it.
“A house with a porch.”
He smiled.
“That's it?”
“No hospital bills.”
“Reasonable.”
“A dog.”
“What kind?”
“Big.”
“Specific.”
“And maybe my own diner someday.”
That caught his attention.
“You want Murphy's?”
“I want something like it.”
“Why?”
“Because diners are honest.”
He laughed.
“Nothing about Murphy's is honest. Reuben waters down the orange juice.”
“I knew it.”
“But you could do it.”
“Someday.”
Adrian looked at me.
“Someday is dangerous.”
“So is your family.”
“Fair.”
Outside, snow had begun falling.
He walked me to my apartment.
At the door, he stopped.
“I'd like to kiss you.”
I smiled.
“You're asking?”
“I've learned Moretti men need practice hearing no.”
That was exactly the right answer.
I stepped closer.
“So practice tomorrow.”
His face fell.
Then I kissed his cheek.
“Goodnight, Adrian.”
I closed the door.
Three seconds later, my phone buzzed.
ADRIAN: That was cruel.
I replied.
EMILY: Character building.
His response came immediately.
ADRIAN: Dinner tomorrow?
EMILY: Maybe.
ADRIAN: Coffee?
EMILY: Definitely.
---
Six months later, my mother's oxygen machine was gone.
Not stored.
Gone.
She walked into Murphy's under her own power.
Everyone applauded.
Dana cried.
Reuben burned three orders because he was watching.
And Vincent Moretti stood from his stool.
My mother approached him.
“So you're the man who threw the cup.”
Vincent looked uncomfortable.
“Apparently everyone knows about that.”
She hugged him.
Vincent froze.
Then carefully hugged her back.
“Thank you for helping my daughter,” she whispered.
Vincent looked toward me.
“She helped me too.”
That afternoon, he asked me to sit with him.
“I bought something.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“If it's another hospital—”
“It's Murphy's.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“The diner business. Not the building. The owner wanted to retire.”
My stomach dropped.
“Vincent.”
“Before you start yelling, I'm not giving it to you.”
That stopped me.
“You aren't?”
“No.”
He slid a folder across the counter.
“A loan.”
I opened it.
Reasonable interest.
Affordable payments.
My name as sole owner.
No Moretti control.
“You'd own it,” Vincent said. “You'd owe me exactly what the contract says. Nothing else.”
“Why?”
“Because you're good here.”
I looked around the diner.
Dana.
Reuben.
The cracked red stools.
The faded photographs.
The wall where Vincent's coffee cup had shattered.
“You planned this?”
“No.”
“Adrian?”
“He told me you'd refuse a gift.”
“He was right.”
Vincent smiled.
“I know.”
I picked up a pen.
“One condition.”
“Of course.”
“You're banned from throwing cups.”
Vincent sighed.
“Fine.”
May you like
I signed.
---
