Page 17 of Sold To My Ex's Dad

“Normally, I would. But this guy … he’s a VIP. You’re going to want to talk to him personally.”

"Lead him back," I reply, my interest piqued. Who would request a private meeting now, of all times?

The man who steps into my office a few moments later is immediately familiar. He's in his sixties, well-dressed with understated elegance. There's a poised assurance about him and also a hint of menace, not overt but unmistakably there. His hair is jet-black, tinged silver on the sides, slicked back with care.

Luca Amato. Not only does he have a particular reputation around town, but he’s dined at my restaurant more than a few times.

"Mr. Amato, to what do I owe the pleasure?" I ask as I stand to greet him.

"Luca, please," he insists, with a polite nod. "And as to why I’m here, let me begin by saying I've been a patron of your establishment since the doors first opened. You run a fine restaurant, Patrick."

I'm well aware of Luca’s other reputation—that of a high-ranking member of the Italian mafia in New York.

"I'm honored to have your continued support, Luca."

My mind is already racing through potential scenarios—an extortion attempt seems the most likely reason for this visit, but then I catch myself—Luca Amato isn't the type to personally handle such matters. He has people for that.

Luca’s next question catches me entirely off guard. "How much would it cost to rent out your entire restaurant for an evening, one night per month? Say, on a Tuesday? I'm thinking a full five-course meal, including wine and spirits."

I blink, processing the request. Renting out the entire restaurant is a big ask. "I'd need to crunch some numbers," I admit. "Calculate what we typically bring in on a Tuesday, figure out staffing, a menu, a wine list. It's a sizable undertaking."

“I understand.”

"Why the whole place? Why not just a private room?" I probe, curious about his intentions.

Luca chuckles, an amusing sound. "Do you have a private room I've somehow missed all these years?"

I can't help but laugh along, the shared moment of humor bridging the gap between us momentarily. "Fair point. No, we don't."

He leans forward, his demeanor serious. "My men and I, we love your food, Patrick. And when we have business meetings, we prefer not to do them at home. Renting out your place is the best option for privacy and atmosphere."

The logic is sound, and I find myself nodding along. The idea of providing an exclusive experience for Luca Amato and his associates is daunting but not without its perks. "Give me some time to put together a menu and work out a per-person cost. How many will be attending?"

"Let's plan for ten men," he says, already one step ahead.

"Any specific requests for the menu?" I ask, reaching for a notepad.

Luca doesn't hesitate. "Start with those bacon-wrapped scallops as appetizers. They're a hit with my boys."

"Consider it done," I reply, scribbling down notes. The bacon-wrapped scallops are a crowd-pleaser, but ensuring the rest of the menu matches their caliber will be key.

As Luca stands to leave, he hands me a business card. "Get me those numbers, Patrick. I'm looking forward to making this a regular thing."

I watch him leave with a mix of apprehension and excitement. The opportunity to host Luca Amato and his associates once a month could be a boon for Savor, provided I navigate it carefully. The challenge is not only in crafting a menu that impresses Luca but in balancing the demands of a private event with the ethos of my restaurant.

Turning back to my desk, I start jotting down ideas for a menu, my mind already racing with possibilities. This could be a turning point for Savor, a chance to showcase our culinary prowess in a new, albeit unconventional, way.

However, it could also put me squarely in the middle of the mafia’s questionable business practices, and I’m not sure what that could entail or if I’m ready to go there.

Chapter 11

Allie

The next morning, I set off to drop off my resume at Savor. The nerves are there, simmering just under the surface, but excitement's got the upper hand.

Stacy's sprawled on my bed in my room, phone in hand, probably deep into her latest social media spiral, while I'm ransacking my closet for something that screams, 'Hire me; I'm a culinary genius.’'

"I ran into Caleb yesterday," I blurt out, hoping to distract myself from my pitiful wardrobe.

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