Page 38 of Sexting the Don

Now’s the time to make my move.

After one more sip of coffee, I slip out of my car and step out onto the sidewalk. The streets are packed, and I waste no time weaving through the crowd and making my way to the bistro. I glance over at Jimmy and his boys before I step in. The threesome is laughing and carrying on, ordering expensive booze.

I grin. A liquored-up Jimmy promises to be even more of a clown than he normally is.

The big, brown eyes of the young, pretty hostess flick up at me as I enter, and a smile spreads across her face.

“Welcome to Bernadette’s,” she says. “Last name for the reservation?”

I glance over her shoulder. The place is a zoo. Is every table full?

That’s not a problem, sir.

I catch the eye of the maître’d, a trim, middle-aged man with a bald head and aquiline nose. His eyes flash when he sees me, and he stops what he’s doing, zipping over to the host stand.

“My name’s not on the list,” I tell her. “But your boss will sort all of that out.”

A confused expression flashes on the hostess’s face for a moment, and she opens her mouth to speak. But before she can utter a word, the maître’d arrives.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Martelli,” he says. “Truly an honor for you to stop in.”

I respond with a single, slow nod.

“One today?” he asks. There’s a quiver to his voice that makes it abundantly clear he knows just who he’s dealing with.

“There aren’t any tables open,” the hostess says quietly. “And it doesn’t sound like he has a reservation.”

“Find him a table,” the maitre'd hisses. “Your job depends on it.”

“No need for any of that,” I say. “That table, right there,” I gesture to the small, two-person table right behind where Jimmy is seated. “That would be perfect.”

“Those are the Mayers,” the hostess says. “We can’t just ask them to move.”

“That’s precisely what I’m going to do,” the maître’d replies.

The hostess, still sheepish, takes her pen and begins to write something down.

“Table for one, Mr. Ne—”

I reach forward, placing my hand on hers.

“No names are necessary. Thank you for your help.”

She stares up at me with those big brown eyes as if her fate is in my hands. She may not know who I am precisely, but she can sense she’s in the presence of someone important.

Without a word, I produce a pair of hundreds, tucking the bills into her hand before heading off with the maître’d. He rushes out onto the patio and speaks hurriedly to the well-dressed couple, letting them know the bad news that their lunch will be cut short.

They’re not happy about it, but they leave without arguing.

“Your table, Mr. Martelli,” he says, a pleasant smile on his face.

“Thank you. And please tell them that their next three meals here will be charged to my account.”

“As you wish, Mr. Martelli.”

I sit, Jimmy oblivious to my presence. The three men are laughing and carrying on, not a care in the world. I can tell by the looks on the faces of the other patrons out on the patio that their loud and obnoxious behavior is not appreciated.

Thankfully, Jimmy’s already three sheets to the wind and running his mouth. So, I order a bottle of Perrier and listen in.

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