Chapter 9 - The Seat at Table Eleven
Five years passed.
I finished my degree, graduating top of my class, but I never fully left Laut. When Mr. Ricca retired three years later, I bought the restaurant using a combination of my savings and an anonymous zero-interest business loan that had arrived in my bank account on the day of my graduation.
I changed a few things.
I replaced the stiff, intimidating host stand with a warm mahogany counter that faced the door directly. I removed the dress code. And I instituted a strict, unbreakable rule for all my staff: No person who enters this restaurant hungry shall ever be turned away, regardless of what they are wearing or how much money they have in their pockets.
Every Thursday night at eight o'clock, Table Eleven was reserved.
Nobody was ever seated there. A single silver plate, a crisp white napkin, and a glass of dark Nebbiolo were laid out every week at seven-thirty.
Some nights, Moretti would come. He looked older now, his hair completely white, his movements slower, but his eyes remained as sharp as forged steel. He would sit alone, sip his wine, and watch the dining room with a quiet, satisfied smile.
Other nights, he wouldn't show up. But the table remained empty, waiting for him.
On a rainy Thursday in November, the brass bell above the entrance rang.
It was that same soft, polite chime.
I looked up from my desk near the host stand. Standing in the doorway was a young woman in her early twenties, wearing a simple navy coat, her hair damp from the storm. Beside her was an elderly woman leaning on a silver-handled cane.
It was Elena and Mia.
May you like
Mia had grown into a striking young woman, her eyes possessing the same quiet intelligence I had seen when she was six years old. She looked around the warm, golden dining room, her gaze stopping at Table Eleven.
"Welcome to Laut," I said, stepping around the counter with a broad, genuine smile. "Table for two?"
