The restaurant I’d chosen was near Rittenhouse Square, a very successful eatery that appealed to the millennial crowd and which had an owner who needed to sell it without too many questions asked. He had some emergency overseas he had to attend to, which made the whole transaction the perfect opportunity for us.
As I strolled along the familiar Philadelphia streets, I took in the neighborhood. The Organic Eats bistro was in a nicer area of the city, located conveniently across from a pizza joint and down the block from the famous gabled roof of the G. Fred DiBona, Jr. building. The location sat about five blocks from the Varasso estate, which gave me easy access.
This particular project would’ve made me nervous and uneasy when I’d been younger and anxious for Angelo’s approval. As it was now, it’d become important to me because I yearned for our family to succeed and stay safe. Part of that was ensuring that our business transactions stayed under the table and inconspicuous, which could be tricky.
Still, it was vital to maintain the outward appearance of legitimacy.
Parking was at a premium on this street, so I drove my nondescript Audi around the corner to find a space. As I made my way across the sidewalk, I noted that the façade was clean with immaculately kept windows and a couple of metal table and chair sets outside for patio dining.
Right next to the door was a chalkboard with a message that said, “Overweight people are more difficult to kidnap! Eat here so you’re harder to grab!” The joke might be kind of lame, but it made me snicker to myself regardless. At least I’d go in with a smile on my face.
When I entered, I found the place inviting. It showcased an eclectic mix of booths and tables, with nice lighting and an accent wall painted in a chocolate brown. On this wall were large letters that curved across the middle saying “Serving the neighborhood.” White birds had also been painted on it, birds that reminded me of seagulls. I liked overall effect.
“Can I help you, sir?” a young woman with curly strawberry blond hair approached me. Her nametag said Chloe.
“I’m here to speak to the owner, Ian Flood.”
Chloe led me past a counter decorated with a globe, a plant I believed to be fresh rosemary, and a pot of red geraniums, just like my mother used to grow. It gave me a bit of a pang to see it. While we’d hired gardeners to maintain my mother’s once prolific flower garden, her original plants all burned up in the fire.
They’d replanted everything, of course, but it’d never be the same.
“Mr. Varasso?” a man in a blue suit stood quickly, his movements jerky as if in an immense hurry.
“Marco, please.”
“Yes, yes. I’m Ian. What do you think of the location so far?” The man’s blue eyes seemed almost cartoonish they were so wide, and though the temperature hovered near the upper seventies, sweat gleamed on his brow. I decided to cut to the chase.
“I think it’ll do nicely.”
“Really?” His smile took over half his face. “That’s wonderful. Are you ready to sign the paperwork?”
“Absolutely.”
Without any further ado, he pulled some papers from a briefcase and gave them to me. I looked over them. I’d been responsible for a portion of the laundering part of our business for years, but this was the first time Luca had asked me to run point. I was ready to show him that I felt more than capable of heading up that aspect of our business.
Although my love of bodybuilding may have made me look like anything but an accountant, I’d always excelled at math, at the numbers game. Had the Varassos not been members of the Italian mafia, I probably would’ve endeavored to be something much more innocuous, like an investment banker or stockbroker.
Unlike drug runners, growers, or delivery personnel, numbers stayed steady and reliable. Unlike people, numbers never lied.
Once every I was dotted and every T crossed, I handed the man back his papers as well as a sizable wad of cash in a bank deposit bag, and he went to make some copies. He appeared to be anxious to jump ship, but at the last moment, he leaned in.
“Listen, man, I know I’m not over this place anymore, but I have to ask. Are you going to be mixing up the staff? Like firing a lot of my people?”
I glanced up and down at the various employees.
There were two servers, a cook in the back I could see through the takeout window, and a hostess. A woman waltzed in just then, tying on a short black apron like the rest of the servers wore. She smiled and waved at the other two servers, popped into the back, and reappeared a minute later, already on the floor and taking orders.
I felt impressed by such dedication, especially in a field where the workers made so little an hour. The redheaded server finished up with her table, went to the back—presumably to clock out—and then vanished.
“Thank you, honey,” she said to the new server, hugging her on the way out.
“Have fun.”
Apparently, Ian noticed me watching them. “All my servers are great, but Kelly’s the cream of the crop.” I caught his eye. “She’s the brunette who just walked in. The girl’s fast, accurate, and will work triple shifts if you ask her. I couldn’t keep the place going without her.”
Though I knew she couldn’t possibly hear her name from across the room and in such a busy, noisy environment, Kelly chose that moment to glance at us. She continued to take her customer’s order, but I noticed that her expression became suddenly wary as she took me in. It was as if she knew I wasn’t just another benign businessman in a tailored suit.
Clever girl.