up inside him.
They’d said very little as they toured the empty space that had previously housed Mykonos. The Mediterranean restaurant had done a brisk business serving quality food until the owner’s wife was arrested for selling other services in the upstairs apartment six months earlier. Since then, the restaurant space had been vacant.
Salvatore Valentino looked around the kitchen—barely recognizable as such since the ovens, fryers, sinks and refrigerators had been taken out and sold by the landlord.
“It’s better than what we started with on Queen Street,” he acknowledged. “But it needs a lot of work to turn it into something worthy of the Valentino name.”
“But you can see the potential,” Caterina said, her tone slightly more encouraging.
“I’d like to make an offer on the property,” Marco told them.
“So make an offer,” his grandfather said.
Caterina elbowed her husband sharply in the ribs and muttered some unflattering words about her spouse in Italian. Then she reverted back to English to say, “Our grandson is asking for our approval.”
“Our grandson should know we trust him to do what is right for the business.”
“I appreciate that,” he told them. “But I want to make sure you’re aware of the risks.”
“Such as the fact that sixty percent of new businesses fail within the first three years?” Salvatore asked.
“That statistic is exaggerated,” Caterina said.
“How do you know?” her husband challenged.
She lifted her chin. “I watch CNN.”
“Statistics aside,” Marco interjected, eager to diffuse the argument he sensed was brewing, “we should have an advantage in that we’re not opening a new restaurant—we’re expanding an established business to a second location.”
“What’s your timeline?”
“At this point, it’s a guess—but I’m hoping no more than four to six months, if we enlist the family to do most of the renovations.”
“With you working regular hours at Valentino’s and overtime here?” Caterina guessed.
“I’m going to pull everyone in for this project,” he assured her. “Including Nonno.”
His grandfather’s face brightened perceptibly; his grandmother’s gaze narrowed. “His heart—”
Marco touched a hand to her arm, silently reassuring her that he understood her concerns. But he also understood that it was important for his grandfather to keep busy and feel useful. “We’ll keep a close eye on him,” he promised.
“Mi tratta come se fossi un bambino,” Salvatore grumbled.
“A toddler has more sense than you do sometimes,” his wife shot back.
Then she turned to Marco. “What are you smiling about?”
“Just thinking how lucky I am to have both of you in my life.”
“Don’t you forget it,” Caterina said.
At the same time, Salvatore said, “Suck-up.”
His grandmother moved to the window, looking at the boutiques and shops across the street. “It’s a more upscale neighborhood than downtown.”
“It is,” he confirmed. “Which translates into the local residents having deeper pockets and eating out more often.”
“Will you change the prices?” Salvatore asked worriedly.
“Not on our traditional pasta dishes,” Marco promised. “But we’ll offer some higher-priced special entrées and a higher-end wine selection. Nonna and Rafe will create the menu, if I can convince him to run the kitchen here.”
“You should hire Lana as a hostess.”
Marco frowned. “Who?”
“Elena Luchetta’s granddaughter.”
“We’ve got a lot of work to do before we can start thinking about hiring anyone,” he said with more patience than he felt.
“But she’d be perfect,” Nonna insisted.
“Because she’s Italian?”
“Sì. And single.”
He sighed. “You’ve got to stop dangling all of your friends’ granddaughters under my nose like they’re bait.”
“I will when you finally snap one of them up,” she said unapologetically.
“There’s no need for the boy to rush into marriage,” Salvatore defended.
“I want great-grandbabies,” Caterina said.
“You have six,” Marco reminded her.
“No thanks to you,” she retorted.
“What are your plans for the upper level?” Salvatore asked.
Marco turned to him, grateful for the abrupt change of topic. “There are two bedrooms, a bathroom, small living area and kitchenette.”
“Private entrance?”
He nodded.
“Could generate some rental income,” his grandfather noted.
Marco had considered that possibility. “Or we could renovate it to offer private event rooms.”
“We already do that.”
He shook his head. “We host group events—bridal and baby showers, engagement and birthday parties. I was thinking of promoting the space for more intimate gatherings and private celebrations.”
“Intimate and private sounds like what got this place shut down,” Salvatore warned.
Marco choked on a laugh. “I was thinking of something like dinner for two—to celebrate wedding anniversaries or set the stage for marriage proposals.”
Caterina sniffed. “What do you know about proposals?”
“I know that if and when I finally meet the right woman, it would be nice to have a romantic—and private—setting in which to pop the question.”
“Or to celebrate a sixty-fifth anniversary,” Salvatore said, lifting his wife’s hand to brush his lips over the back of it.
“If we make it to sixty-five years,” she told him, a teasing glint in her eyes, “I don’t want a private dinner. I want a big party—una grande festa.”
“And I want whatever you want,”
