Fair Play (33 page)

He turned as the object of his daydream tugged urgently on his arm.

“What?”

“Go change into your tux and hang out in the kitchen until I need you.”

“Why?”

Theresa pulled a face. “You're driving me and everyone else out here nuts. You're behaving like a crazy person, barking orders and moving things around. It's not fun.”

“So you want to get rid of me?”

“In a word? Yes.”

“Where's Preppie Boy?” he asked, unable to resist.

Theresa pressed her mouth into a hard line. “Out of town on business.”

Michael studied her face, hard and defensive now after his unwarranted barb. “You happy?” he asked softly.

“Very. Now go.” Grabbing him by the shoulders, she gently turned him in the direction of the kitchen.

Resigned to his fate, he obeyed, shuffling through the swinging doors. The heat of the kitchen smacked him like a steaming towel to the face. But the smells . . . He perked back up, unable to decide which was more enticing: the aroma of bread baking, the tart, aromatic smell of fresh basil being chopped, or the comforting, familiar scent of the family sauce simmering on the stove. He tried to be as unobtrusive as possible as Anthony and the rest of the kitchen staff chopped, baked and stirred. Almost unconsciously, he found himself edging toward his brother. Anthony took one look at him, glared, then went back to filling the cannoli shells he had laid out on a papered tray.

“What's the problem?” Michael asked, coming to rest against the steel table where his brother was working.

“Get out, Mike,” Anthony commanded. “I'm very, very busy.”

Ignoring him, Michael dipped his finger in a nearby bowl of cannoli filling. Anthony growled something about unsanitary practices under his breath but continued filling the pastries nonetheless.

Michael frowned. “We open in less than an hour, Ant. Can't you get someone else to fill those?”

“No.”

“I'll do it,” Michael offered. If he had to stand around doing nothing while Theresa ran the show out front and Anthony was boss back here, he'd lose his mind.

Anthony's left eyelid twitched. “Get the hell out of here before I murder you, Mike.”

“I can't,” Michael informed him. “I've been banished from the dining room until further notice.”

“Then keep out of my way.”

Michael slunk to the nearest stove. Grabbing a clean wooden spoon, he dipped it into one of the large vats of simmering sauce and took a taste, pausing to get the full flavor. He took another small spoonful. Something was missing.

“I think this needs more sugar, Anthony.”

“GO FUCK YOURSELF, MIKE!” Anthony barked loudly. The kitchen staff laughed nervously.

“I mean it, Ant,” Michael said seriously. “I think it needs more sugar.”

“You think it needs more sugar?” Anthony repeated. “
You
think it needs more sugar? Fine. I'll add more sugar.”

He disappeared into the supply room, returning with a five-pound bag of sugar. Violently tearing open the top, he dumped the entire contents into the pot of sauce, his mouth twisted in a perverse smile. “How's that, Mike? That enough sugar?”

Michael's mouth fell open.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he yelled.

“Yeah, I am!” Anthony shouted back, the lid blowing off the anger he'd been trying to control all day. “I'm out of my FUCKING MIND to have agreed to let a HOCKEY PLAYER tell me what to do with
MY
RESTAURANT!”

“
Your
restaurant?” Michael thundered. “Listen, you SOB, who's laid out all the money for PR, who paid for the renovation, who—”

“Who asked you to?” Face mottled purple with rage, Anthony tore off his apron, hurling it at Michael's feet. “You want the big, new, improved restaurant? Take it. It's yours. I QUIT.”

With that, he stormed out the back door of the kitchen, kicking it once for good measure before disappearing completely.

No one was laughing now.

“Fuck,” Michael whispered to himself. Face burning, he swallowed hard, crouching down to pick up the apron before braving a glance at the petrified kitchen staff. “Uh, carry on,” he said lamely, sounding like a mortified monarch. “I'll be right back.”

Carrying the crumpled apron in his hand, he followed his brother out the back door. He found Anthony behind the restaurant dumpster, puffing furiously on a cigarette.

“Fuck off,” he snarled.

“Anthony.” Michael approached him carefully, the way you would a rabid animal. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to step on your toes.”

“You've been stepping on my toes since September, Mike. And I'm fucking sick of it.”

“I know, I know,” Michael apologized. As discreetly as he could, he glanced at his watch. Forty minutes until Theresa opened the doors.
Jesus H. Christ.
Sweat began beading on his brow as he imagined the disaster that would ensue if Anthony refused to return to the kitchen. There was only one thing to do: grovel.

“Please don't quit,” he begged his brother. His request was met by stony silence. “Dante's needs you.”

“I don't know, Mike,” Anthony replied, drawing obstinately on his cigarette. “I don't know if I can take you acting like you're the one who's been cooking for twenty years, like you're the one who knows how to run a restaurant.”

“Anthony, please.”

“We've got some issues, Mike,” Anthony prattled on. “Stuff I've been holding in that I don't think I can anymore.”

Michael looked down at the ground, praying for patience.
He wants to have a heart-to-heart NOW? Be cool, Mikey. Say and do whatever needs to be said to get him back in his friggin' apron.
Michael slowly lifted his gaze to Anthony. “I hear what you're saying,” he told him calmly. “And I promise you we will talk about this. But right now, I need you to come back and cook. Please. I swear on Mom and Pop's graves that I will keep out of your hair and that I will listen to everything you have to say. But please . . . go cook.”

For a split second, it looked as if Anthony's top lip was ready to curl into a sneer, the prelude to turning down his brother's desperate request. Instead, he tossed his cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath the toe of his shoe. “All right,” he agreed sullenly. “But on one condition.”

Michael was so thrilled he would have agreed to castration. “What's that?”

“You never fucking tell me the sauce needs sugar again.”

Michael put his hand over his heart. “Done.”

“And.”

“What?” Michael bit out impatiently. He couldn't believe there was more.

The scowl faded from Anthony's face as he clasped an arm around Michael's shoulder. “You take a freaking chill pill and try to enjoy yourself. This is our night, buddy boy. Let's knock 'em dead.”

 

 

It had been
drummed into Theresa's brain in Catholic school that the deadliest of the seven deadly sins was pride. But tonight, watching the ecstatic faces of the crowd as they stuffed themselves with the best food they'd ever tasted, she didn't care if she was sinning. She could-n't have been more proud if she'd owned the restaurant herself.

Women who normally picked at their food looked like they might lick their plates. The men ate heartily, un abashedly, as the wait staff circled the room, impeccably professional and attentive. Theresa couldn't believe she'd ever been nervous about putting together a PR campaign for a restaurant. If the bottomless appetites of the partygoers were any indication, she had a bona fide success on her hands.

She couldn't take complete credit, of course. None of this would have been possible if Anthony wasn't a dynamite cook, or if he and Michael hadn't been willing to follow the plan she'd drafted back in the fall. She took another look around the room. They had maintained the same decor despite the expansion, with pictures of Popes, gondoliers and prominent Italians beatifically beaming down on the diners from the red walls. She was glad they hadn't gone with her initial impulse to go more upscale.

She wished Reese were here to witness her success, but he was in Chicago, closing yet another deal on behalf of Butler Corporation. She took a sip of her bellini; he'd be back tomorrow, and she could share the good news with him then. She knew he wasn't much of a celebrity watcher, but maybe even he would get a kick out of the picture of her between Danny Aiello and James Gandolfini.

She continued scouring the room, checking to make sure everyone was having a good time. Her mother had insisted on staying home with her father, but there was her idiotic brother Phil, red sauce splattered on the white napkin tucked beneath his chin while he virtually inhaled ravioli . . . Ty and Janna, laughing and joking at a long table set up especially for some of the Blades and their wives . . . and Michael, tucked away discreetly in a corner with a petite, curvy woman whom Theresa had never seen before.

His arm was around her shoulder.

His head was ducked down to listen to what she whispered in his ear.

Whatever it was, it was hilarious—Michael threw his head back and laughed while the woman gazed up into his face affectionately. He drew her even closer.

That was when Theresa felt a wrecking ball hit her gut.

I don't care,
she thought feverishly, forcing her eyes away. She had rejected him, and he had a right to get on with his life, just like she had. But the sight of him with this woman made her feel frantic.
Who was she?
Burning with curiosity, she scoped out the room once more, zeroing in on Anthony, who was taking a break from the kitchen and was talking with a waiter so ancient Theresa was sure he'd witnessed the Fall of Rome firsthand.

Sliding gracefully off her bar stool, she moved toward him, trying to figure out how to initiate a conversation and work it around to what she wanted—
needed
—to know. She and Anthony had never really gotten along. At first it had to do with his resistance to her publicizing the restaurant, but now she was sure that in his mind, she was the unstable bitch who'd ripped his brother's heart out. By the time she reached him, she had come up with her opening gambit. Smiling sweetly, she tapped him on the shoulder.

“Anthony?”

She made sure she sounded tentative and needy as he turned around, surprised to see her there.

“Theresa.” His voice was formal. “What can I do for you?”

“This is the first chance all evening I've had to tell you how amazing the food is,” she gushed. “You must be very, very proud.”

Anthony cleared his throat nervously, clearly uncomfortable. “Yes, well, thank you.”

“I know you're shy, but would you let me make a big announcement and introduce you to the guests so they can all give you a round of applause?”

“Well . . .”

Theresa could see that he loved the idea but was trying to appear modest.

“Please?” she cajoled.

“All right,” he capitulated graciously as if she were twisting his arm.

“Great. Would you like to do it now, or in half an hour or so, when people start ordering dessert?”

“Later is good.”

“Terrific.” She squeezed his arm. “By the way,” she asked casually, “who's that woman Michael's talking to? I don't think I've seen her before.”

Theresa's hand tightened around her sweating glass as Anthony trained his eyes on Michael and the woman in the corner. The gaze he returned to Theresa was bored, almost nonchalant.

“Oh, that's Mikey's new girlfriend.” The edges of his mouth tilted upwards into a slow, lascivious smile. “Hot, isn't she?”

“I guess,” Theresa mumbled, numb. She was glad the restaurant wasn't lit brightly enough for Anthony to see the twin flames now consuming her cheeks.
Michael's new girlfriend
. . .

“You okay?” Anthony asked.

“I'm fine,” Theresa assured him, forcing a smile. She would not give rein to the upset pinching at her. She would focus on work. “I'll introduce you before dessert,” she repeated, making her way back to the bar. A few minutes ago she'd felt like the Queen of the Universe, triumphant, successful, invincible. But now?

She was all too aware of being human.

 

 

Closing the door of Dante's as the final partygoers departed, Michael was struck by a sense of accomplishment that far outweighed his exhaustion. It reminded him of the way he felt after playing a great game: wrung out but inspired. Despite a rocky start, the evening had been an unqualified success. Everyone said so, including Theresa. Apart from what the staff had saved to eat later on, all the food was gone. Aldo, the waiter who had worked for his parents for forty years, had pulled him aside at one point and with tears in his tired eyes, whispered fervently, “Your parents would be so proud, Mikey.”

That was all he needed to hear.

Rubbing the weariness from his eyes, he plodded across the room and slid onto a bar stool beside Anthony. The sag in his brother's shoulders told him Anthony was as tired as he was, probably more. Still wrapped in his apron, he sat quietly puffing on a cigar and drinking Sambuca. Soon they would have to start cleaning up. But for now, both felt entitled to sit for a few minutes and just rest.

Anthony pulled another cigar out of his pocket and held it out to Michael, who waved it away disdainfully. “Get outta here. You know I don't smoke.”

Anthony put the offending object back in his shirt pocket with a shrug.