Chapter 7 - THE DINNER NOBODY WAS INVITED TO|
At eight o'clock that night, I stood inside Caruso's kitchen with a notebook and a borrowed phone charger.
I had never organized a protest.
I had never argued with city officials.
Until two days earlier, I had never even spoken to Luca Moretti outside the ordinary boundaries of my job.
But I knew how to make a list.
And I knew how to ask people for help.
Sometimes, those were the only things a person needed to begin.
Mrs. Caruso sat at the kitchen table while I called everyone she could remember.
The owner of the bakery next door answered first.
“Teresa?”
“It's Emma Reed,” I said.
“I'm helping Mrs. Caruso.”
“Is she all right?”
“She's frightened.”
The woman sighed.
“We all are.”
I explained the demolition notice.
Then I asked whether she would come to the restaurant with any documents she'd received about her own property.
She arrived twenty minutes later carrying an entire grocery bag of letters.
By nine, six other business owners had joined us.
A tailor named Mr. Kaplan brought a folder filled with notices.
A woman who ran a small grocery store brought photographs of surveyors measuring her building without permission.
An elderly landlord brought copies of offers that had arrived from companies he'd never heard of.
Every envelope led back to the same network of investors.
Lakefront Renewal Partners.
Vincent Bellini.
Daniel Voss.
And, somewhere behind them, the name Moretti Holdings.
I spread the papers across three tables.
“We need to show that this isn't just about one restaurant.”
Mr. Kaplan looked at me skeptically.
“Sweetheart, these people have lawyers who charge more per hour than I earn in a week.”
“I know.”
“Then what exactly are you planning?”
I looked around the room.
“I'm planning to make sure nobody can say they didn't know what was happening.”
Ben arrived with his laptop under one arm.
He had insisted on coming after Marco confirmed that officers would be checking the block.
My brother might have been twenty, but he'd always had the stubborn confidence of someone who believed computers could solve any problem.
“What do you need?” he asked.
“Photographs, names, and a place where people can tell their stories.”
He nodded.
“Give me an hour.”
We began recording short videos.
The bakery owner explained how her grandparents had opened their shop after immigrating from Italy.
Mr. Kaplan talked about the wedding suits he'd made for three generations of the same families.
Mrs. Caruso sat beneath an old photograph of her husband.
She looked at the camera.
“My name is Teresa Caruso.”
Her voice trembled.
“My husband and I opened this restaurant in 1978.”
She took a breath.
“I don't want anyone to give me something for free.”
Her hands tightened around the wooden spoon.
“I only want to finish my life in the place where I spent it.”
Ben stopped recording.
Nobody spoke.
I wiped my eyes before anyone noticed.
Then Mrs. Caruso looked at me.
“Emma, can I show you something?”
She led me toward the pantry.
Along the bottom of the wall ran a row of old blue ceramic tiles.
Most had faded with age.
One near the rear corner was a slightly darker shade.
“Sal put these in himself,” she explained.
“He hated that the original wall looked unfinished.”
I knelt.
“Is this the blue tile?”
She nodded.
“After Antonio died, my husband made me promise never to let anyone remove it.”
“Why?”
“He said there were things behind that wall that powerful men would spend fortunes to bury.”
A chill moved through me.
“Did you ever look?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
She glanced toward the door.
“Because Sal was afraid someone would hurt us if we did.”
I reached toward the darker tile.
Then stopped.
If important evidence really lay behind that wall, we needed to preserve it properly.
I wasn't going to destroy possible proof in a rush.
“Let's tell Nina,” I said.
Mrs. Caruso nodded.
We returned to the dining room.
By then, Luca had arrived with Marco and an independent structural engineer.
His face looked exhausted.
Nina was on the phone with a judge's emergency clerk.
“We've filed for a temporary restraining order,” she told me.
“But the court wants evidence that the demolition notice is improper.”
I pointed toward the pantry.
“I think we've found something important.”
Before I could explain, the engineer emerged from the rear hallway.
“Mr. Moretti, I haven't completed the inspection.”
Luca looked up.
“But?”
“But the wall identified in the city's report doesn't show the displacement their measurements claim.”
Nina immediately began writing.
“Can you document that?”
“Yes.”
“Photographs?”
“Already taken.”
For the first time all evening, I felt a little hope.
Luca looked toward the gathering of neighbors.
“What's all this?”
I explained our plan.
He listened.
Then he looked at the paperwork spread across the tables.
“You did this yourself?”
“Ben helped.”
My brother lifted a hand.
“Mostly the internet part.”
Luca almost smiled.
Then his eyes moved to Mrs. Caruso.
She had returned to the kitchen.
“Teresa shouldn't stay here tonight,” he said.
“I'll take her home after we collect her things.”
“Good.”
He glanced at the windows.
“And Emma?”
“Yes?”
“Be careful.”
I wanted to say something sarcastic about how ordinary housekeepers weren't generally threatened over ravioli.
But he looked genuinely worried.
So I simply nodded.
By ten thirty, most of the neighbors had left.
Nina took the documents to prepare an additional filing.
Marco went outside to speak with officers and the engineer.
Ben drove home to check on Dad.
That left Mrs. Caruso and me gathering photographs from the pantry.
I found the picture of Salvatore and Antonio standing in front of the restaurant.
They were laughing.
Neither man looked rich.
Neither looked afraid.
Mrs. Caruso touched the photograph.
“Your boss's father wasn't always the man people thought he was.”
I looked at her.
“What do you mean?”
She sighed.
“He made terrible choices.”
Then she smiled sadly.
“But near the end, he was trying to make one thing right.”
“Caruso's?”
“More than the restaurant.”
She looked toward the blue tile.
“I think that's why he died.”
Before I could ask another question, the lights went out.
The refrigerator stopped humming.
The little clock above the stove went dark.
I reached for my phone.
“Mrs. Caruso?”
“I'm here.”
Something slammed outside the back door.
A second later, I smelled gasoline.
I froze.
Then a thin orange light appeared beneath the kitchen door.
Mrs. Caruso grabbed my arm.
“Emma.”
The light spread.
Smoke began curling into the room.
I grabbed my phone and dialed 911.
Then I heard the unmistakable sound of a chain being pulled tight outside the rear exit.
May you like
Someone had locked us inside.
And the restaurant was on fire.
