Chapter 11 - TABLE NINE FOREVER
One year later.
Giovani’s had been closed for eight months following the restructuring of the waterfront. When it reopened, it was no longer a shadowy sanctuary for corrupt capos and crooked judges. The heavy oak doors had been replaced with bright, arched glass; the dark velvet curtains had been stripped away, allowing the morning sun and the evening harbor breeze to flood the dining room with light and salt air.
Marco was now a partner in the restaurant, his name painted in gold leaf on the glass beside Giovani’s original crest. The menu had been overhauled, celebrating fresh, seasonal seafood from sustainable fisheries along the Long Island Sound.
It was Tuesday evening.
8:00 p.m.
The music didn't stop. A warm, acoustic jazz trio played gently from the corner near the polished brass bar, where neighborhood couples drank prosecco and laughed over plates of fried calamari.
At 8:01 p.m., the front doors swung open.
There were no massive enforcers clearing the room. There were no shark-eyed men checking the perimeter for snipers.
Leo came bounding in first, wearing a crisp navy blazer over an untucked white polo shirt, running straight to the open kitchen pass.
“Marco!” Leo yelled, leaning over the counter with a grin. “Tell me you saved the saffron risotto!”
Marco leaned out from the pass, a wide white grin splitting his mustache, tossing a fresh breadstick into the boy’s waiting hands. “For you, little architect? I’d burn the whole kitchen down before I forgot the saffron! Go sit down, your table is waiting!”
Behind Leo walked Salvatore and Orion.
Salvatore wore a tailored gray sport coat over an open-collared charcoal shirt, his arm casually wrapped around Orion’s shoulders. On his ring finger sat a simple, polished platinum band that matched the diamond and gold on hers.
Orion looked breathtaking in a soft ivory knit dress, her hair pulled back into a loose, elegant braid, her hand resting warmly over Salvatore’s fingers where they curved around her hip.
They didn't look at the other tables with suspicion. They smiled at Luigi, who stood behind a sleek new digital podium, bowing with genuine, relaxed warmth—no sweat, no ulcers, just the pride of a man running the finest dining room in Brooklyn.
“Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Rossi,” Luigi said, gesturing toward the alcove. “Table 9 is ready.”
Table 9 was no longer called the morgue.
The curved booth had been reupholstered in rich, warm cognac leather. The wall behind it had been opened up, replaced with an arched bay window that looked directly out over the East River, where the lights of lower Manhattan glittered like fallen stars against the dark water.
Salvatore slid into the booth first, pulling Leo onto the seat beside him. Orion sat next to Salvatore, her shoulder pressing comfortably against his, the warmth of his body her permanent anchor.
A young waitress approached the table—a girl named Sarah, nineteen years old, with a new notepad and slightly nervous hands, carrying a pitcher of water and three crystal goblets.
As Sarah reached for the first glass, her hand trembled slightly, the silver pitcher clinking against the rim.
“I’m so sorry,” Sarah whispered, her face flushing crimson, terrified she had offended the restaurant’s primary investor. “I’m… it’s my first week.”
Orion reached out. Her smooth, warm hand gently covered the young girl’s trembling fingers, steadying the pitcher with effortless grace.
“Take a breath, Sarah,” Orion said, her amber eyes shining with gentle, knowing warmth. “You’re doing fine. The trick is to keep your weight on the balls of your feet and hold the pitcher from the base, not the handle. It gives you balance.”
The girl blinked, took a slow breath, and smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Rossi.”
“Bring us a bottle of the ’97 Amarone,” Salvatore said, his deep voice rich with contentment as his arm tightened around Orion’s waist. “The one with the dust on the shoulder. And three bowls of the chicken soup for the start.”
“Right away, sir,” Sarah said, turning toward the kitchen with newfound confidence in her stride.
Salvatore looked down at his wife. He reached up, tucking a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear, his thumb tracing the soft curve of her jawline until it rested against her lips.
“Cold water still doesn't pay Con Edison,” he whispered, his amber eyes glittering with love and mischief.
May you like
Orion laughed—a rich, musical sound that carried over the gentle jazz, filling the alcove with the warmth of a life fully claimed. She leaned in, pressing her lips to his in a slow, sweet kiss that tasted of home, safety, and a promise that would never be broken.
“We don't have to worry about the heat anymore, Salvatore,” she whispered against his mouth, her hand sliding up his chest to rest over the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart. “The fire is already in the room.”
