The Restaurant Roman Was Not Allowed to Buy
Chapter 13 - The Restaurant Roman Was Not Allowed to Buy
Three years after Roman came home, Naen stopped wearing restaurant uniforms chosen by someone else.
Not because she left hospitality.
Because she became management.
Sienna Cole opened a forty-seat neighborhood restaurant in Queens with two partners.
One partner backed out six months before opening.
Money.
Divorce.
Bad timing.
Sienna called Naen.
“I need a third.”
Naen stared at the spreadsheet.
“How much?”
Sienna named the amount.
Naen laughed.
Then stopped when Sienna did not.
“You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“I have a mortgage.”
“Yes.”
“A child.”
“Yes.”
“Student loans.”
“Almost gone.”
Naen narrowed her eyes.
“You know too much.”
“I employ you.”
Fair.
The buy-in was not impossible.
That was the strange part.
Settlement money remained.
Savings existed.
Her salary had grown.
Not enough to be reckless.
Enough to choose risk.
Naen spent two weeks with an accountant and attorney.
No Roman.
Not because he knew nothing about restaurants.
Because he knew too much about how money could turn advice into influence.
She told him after she decided.
“I’m buying fifteen percent.”
Roman looked up from his coffee.
“Of what?”
“Sienna’s new place.”
His face changed.
Pride arrived.
He caught it.
“Congratulations.”
Better than I’m proud.
“Thank you.”
“How much capital?”
“None of your business.”
He smiled.
“Good.”
“Do not invest.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Do not have one of your companies become landlord.”
“I don’t own the building.”
“Did you check?”
“No.”
Naen stared.
Roman sighed.
“I checked after you told me the address.”
“Of course.”
He laughed.
Then:
“Do you want advice?”
She considered.
“About liquor vendors.”
“Yes.”
“Nothing else.”
“Cruel.”
“Useful.”
Roman gave her three vendor red flags.
Naen verified them independently.
Two were good advice.
One was outdated.
She told him.
He looked offended.
Perfect.
The restaurant was called Marlow.
No family surname.
No Roman reference.
No Eli memorial.
Not every project needed to carry a dead person.
Naen wanted one thing that belonged to the living.
Opening month nearly killed her.
Dishwasher broke.
Sous-chef quit.
A food blogger photographed a fly that may or may not have come from outside.
Leo, now nine, did homework in the office after school twice a week and considered himself “management.”
He was not.
Roman visited only after Naen invited him.
No entourage.
He took table twelve.
Paid.
Tipped twenty percent.
Naen sent back the extra cash when he tried thirty-five.
He complained.
Sienna said:
“I like him.”
Naen stared.
“You barely know him.”
“He pays on time.”
“Restaurant standards are low.”
Sienna smiled.
Marlow survived the first year.
Then the second.
Naen became twenty-five-percent owner when Sienna offered more shares after one partner retired.
Again:
Lawyer.
Accountant.
Her money.
Roman not involved.
That mattered.
Their personal life moved too.
Slowly.
Roman sold most remaining Caruso property assets under compliance restructuring.
He kept one hotel interest.
Two commercial buildings.
A minority restaurant group stake where he held no operating control.
The old criminal network was gone.
Not because every man transformed.
Some left.
Some went to prison.
Some found other crews.
Roman could not convert them all into accountants.
That was never the goal.
One Saturday, Roman asked:
“Do you want to live together?”
Naen nearly dropped a grocery bag.
“You planned this badly.”
“I’ve been thinking for six months.”
“And this is the delivery?”
“Yes.”
“Terrible.”
He smiled.
Then:
“I do.”
“Why?”
“Because I love you.”
“Insufficient.”
He laughed.
She had trained him.
“Because you leave coffee cups everywhere and apparently I want to complain in person.”
“Better.”
“Because Leo already has a toothbrush at my place.”
“That is not legal precedent.”
“Because I want ordinary mornings.”
There.
Naen softened.
Then:
“Not your penthouse.”
Roman nodded immediately.
“Okay.”
“You’re selling?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“We choose somewhere.”
Good.
They rented first.
A three-bedroom apartment in Queens.
Close to Marlow.
Close to Leo’s school.
Not luxury tower.
Good elevator.
Small terrace.
Roman paid more because he earned more.
Naen’s percentage was written.
Utilities shared.
Groceries chaotic.
Leo chose the room farthest from theirs because he had become old enough to understand adults can be embarrassing through walls.
No one discussed that further.
Roman kept his penthouse empty for six months.
Then sold it.
Naen did not ask him to.
He said:
“I don’t need headquarters.”
That was perhaps the clearest sign of change.
Then one night Leo asked the question both adults had avoided.
They were washing dishes after pasta.
“Did Dad die because of Roman?”
Silence.
Naen turned off the water.
Roman went very still.
Leo was ten now.
Old enough for more truth.
Not all.
Naen pulled out a chair.
“Where did you hear that?”
“School.”
Her stomach dropped.
“Who?”
“A kid said his mom saw online that Roman’s company killed Dad.”
Roman’s face changed.
Naen looked at him.
Then Leo.
“Your dad died at a warehouse owned by Roman’s family company.”
“Yes.”
“Was Roman there?”
“No.”
“Did he break it?”
“No.”
“Then?”
Roman spoke.
“My company knew part of the loading platform needed repair.”
Leo looked at him.
“You knew?”
Roman did not hide.
“I signed paperwork delaying repairs.”
Naen watched her son’s face.
Roman continued.
“I did not read the warning carefully enough.”
“Why?”
“Because I cared more about money and keeping the company stable than I should have.”
Leo frowned.
“Did you know Dad would die?”
“No.”
“Did you want him to?”
“No.”
“After?”
Roman swallowed.
“After he died, I wanted the company to avoid bad publicity.”
Naen’s throat tightened.
They had agreed on this level of truth.
No sanitizing.
Leo stared.
“So you were bad.”
Roman took time.
“I did something bad.”
“Are you bad?”
Better question.
Harder.
Roman answered:
“Sometimes I have been.”
Leo looked at Naen.
“Why do you love him?”
There it was.
Naen did not say because he changed.
Too simple.
“Because I know what he did.”
She took a breath.
“And I know what he does now.”
“That means it goes away?”
“No.”
“No.”
Roman said it too.
Leo looked between them.
“Did Dad hate him?”
“We don’t know,” Naen said.
Good.
No dead-man permission.
“Would Dad hate me if I like Roman?”
Naen’s eyes filled.
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because liking someone is not a betrayal of someone who died.”
Roman looked down.
That sentence was not for him.
It was for Leo.
Leo considered.
Then:
“I’m still mad.”
Roman nodded.
“You can be.”
“At you.”
“Yes.”
“Even if Mom loves you.”
“Yes.”
Leo looked suspicious.
“What if I’m mad tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“What if I’m mad forever?”
Roman’s face tightened.
“Still yes.”
Good.
Leo went to his room.
No hug.
No neat resolution.
That night Roman slept badly.
Naen found him at the kitchen table at two.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He looked up.
She smiled sadly.
“I mean—you shouldn’t be.”
“I know.”
“He likes you.”
“I know.”
“He is angry too.”
“I know.”
“Both.”
Roman nodded.
The next morning Leo ate cereal across from him.
No conversation.
Then slid the milk carton over.
Small.
Ordinary.
May you like
Not forgiveness.
Life.
