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June in Minnesota brought some of the finest weather of the year. Bright, cloudless blue skies, a soft, gentle breeze, and temperatures lingering near the ideal eighty degrees. The warm weather had lifted Eddie’s mood, and after weeks of heavy, sometimes problematic and very expensive renovations, Fortunato’s Italian Restaurant was nearing completion.
Weekly calls to Primo appeased him enough to allow Eddie to remain in St. Paul. The construction proved to be a continuing pain-in-the-ass, but Eddie’s side-business with the boys was gaining steam. This pleased him. He’d noticed real promise and, more importantly, a surge in income from the streets. He’d kept Primo partially in the loop on this aspect, and even had sent cash to pacify him.
Dario and Tau had been the real surprise. They’d quickly stepped into their management roles over the past few months, though it was difficult to ignore Dario’s obnoxious confidence. Tau had been especially impressive, gaining new customers and bringing in profits. Eddie was impressed by how quickly word spread on the street that they now were the ones to seek out for product, loans, and betting.
Weekly meetings to split cash and discuss strategy had worked well, but Eddie decided the boys needed a little oversight—oversight he’d soon have no time for. They both were producing cash. Cash that grew exponentially each week, and he didn’t want that getting lost as he tended to the restaurant’s opening. In other words, he didn’t want to get ripped off. He had someone in mind to oversee the street business: his cousin, Sal. He made a mental note to check in with him soon.
As for the restaurant, the once hollowed and musty warehouse had been transformed into an old-world setting of authentic, rustic beauty. Creamy plastered walls were graced with rustic Italian art pieces. Sconce lighting and petite crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling and set the perfect mood. The once drab and dirty cement floors now glistened in chocolate and cream swirls dotted with specks of gold. Massive rugs rested on the floor throughout the dining room and bar. The unsightly metal beams had been artistically painted to look like walls of old bricks, and then wrapped from ceiling to floor in tiny, twinkling amber lights and buttery tulle. Similar twinkling lights hung near the ceiling and flowed down the plate-glass window, wrapped around in more sheer cream tulle on either side, all of it loosely pulled back to create a sophisticated and inviting mood. An antique floor-to-ceiling mirror with an etched heavy mahogany frame gave dimension and magnitude to the room, while hiding the broken brick and pipes that had been one of Micola’s biggest concerns.
Eddie continued his stroll through the dining room, inspecting the details. The mahogany bar with its cream and gold swirled marble top, set up against the back wall, was polished and ready for product. He checked himself in the full wall of mirrors behind it, as he pushed in the leather stools and straightened wine glasses.
He continued his wonder at the alien sensation of glee he’d felt since arriving in St. Paul those many weeks ago. Now, with the restaurant nearing completion and the grand opening just weeks away, he was especially ecstatic.
As Eddie looked out the restaurant’s newly arched front windows onto dreary old Payne Avenue, he said a silent prayer that Mrs. F.’s food would bring the customers and the money. He wanted it for himself, but he was surprised by how much he wanted it for her, as well.
He checked his watch and headed to the end of the dining room, turning down a short hallway which led to three stairs. At the bottom of those stairs stood an old wooden door, its forest green paint faded and chipped. He shook his head and whispered to himself as he unlocked it.
“Gotta’ get this door painted. It’s embarrassin’.”
Eddie flipped on the overhead office light and headed to the old beat-up wooden desk that would be his workplace for the next few months. At the center of the desk, papers had already begun to pile up. Bills, mostly.
The lighting was dim, and more than a hint of mildew irritated his nose. He sat in the cheap, squeaky office chair and jotted “paint,” “air freshener,” and “chair” on his notepad. He generally liked the office. Nice and private. He removed his .38 from the back of his belt buckle and began sorting through the paperwork and paying bills.
Eddie then made his way back upstairs. Micola’s angry bellowing grew louder as he approached. He pushed through the doors and walked into the kitchen. Micola was pointing her finger and scolding the new staff about dinner salads. He walked over and put his arm around her as he pulled her from the group.
“Mrs. F? Can I see you for a minute?”
“But Eddie I—”
“Leave’em alone. They got this. Come on. We need to finish this menu. We’re almost done.”
He took her hand and they walked out to the dining room to one of the round tables near the front window. As they scrutinized the menu and pricing, a team of electricians testing the sound system put on the song, Come Fly With Me, by Frank Sinatra, blasting it through the speakers. Micola and Eddie looked around and laughed.
“Oh! This is happening, Eddie. My dream!”
He touched her hand. “It is. I’m so happy for you, my dear.” He put out his hand. “May I have this dance?”
Micola giggled. “Sí, Signoree.”
He helped her up and wrapped an arm around her waist and took her hand. They sashayed along the sleek floor as Eddie quietly sang to her. When the song ended, he gave her a twirl and an ever-so-slight dip. After pulling her up, he bowed.
Micola could barely hold her laughter. “Grazie, grazie.”
Eddie smiled and guided her back to the table.
“My pleasure, Mrs. F. Now, back to work.”
