Chapter 6 - The Neighborhood War
By Thursday morning, the battle lines were officially drawn across the cobblestone streets of the North End.
Word had spread faster than wildfire through the local bakeries and fish markets: Greco Hospitality was pushing forward with its massive eminent-domain-adjacent buyout of the Hanover Street commercial block, and La Luna Rossa was right at the center of the target zone.
I was back in my apron, wiping down the mahogany bar at La Luna Rossa before opening time, when the front door chimed.
I didn't even look up, assuming it was Rosa coming in early with the morning pastry delivery.
“We don't open for another hour,” I said, polishing a wine glass with a linen cloth.
“Good thing I’m not here for lunch,” a deep, familiar voice answered.
I froze.
I looked up. Dante Greco stood in the middle of the empty dining room. He wasn't wearing his usual corporate armor today; he wore a dark wool overcoat, open at the collar, his hair slightly tousled by the autumn wind coming off the harbor. He looked less like an untouchable corporate titan and more like the dangerous, magnetic men who used to rule these streets decades ago.
“What are you doing here, Mr. Greco?” I asked, setting the glass down carefully on the bar. “If you’re here to inspect the premises, the health inspector already signed off last month.”
Dante walked slowly toward the bar, his hands in his coat pockets. He stopped just across the counter from me, his dark eyes scanning the rustic Italian decor, the copper pots hanging from the ceiling, and the fading black-and-white photographs of old Boston on the brick walls.
“I’m not here for an inspection,” Dante said quietly. “I’m here to make a proposal.”
I let out a short, dry laugh. “A proposal. Let me guess—you want to buy out the lease for pennies on the dollar, bulldoze the kitchen where my grandmother used to eat cannoli on Sundays, and replace it with a high-end espresso lounge for tourists?”
Dante didn't smile. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a thick, manila legal folder, sliding it across the polished wood of the bar until it stopped right against my fingertips.
I looked down at it.
“What is this?”
“Open it,” he said.
I hesitated for a second, then picked up the folder, flipped open the brass clasp, and pulled out the top document.
My eyes widened.
It wasn't an eviction notice. It wasn't a hostile buyout offer.
It was a perpetual preservation covenant—a legally binding deed restriction guaranteeing that La Luna Rossa’s physical structure, historical facade, and current lease terms would be permanently protected from commercial redevelopment, signed and sealed by Greco Hospitality’s primary trust.
“What is the catch?” I asked instantly, looking up from the paper with deep suspicion. “Billionaires don't just hand out historical preservation grants out of the goodness of their hearts.”
“There is no catch,” Dante said, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the bar, closing the distance between us. “The development project moves forward around the block. The luxury hotel gets built. The North End gets modernized. But this building—and this restaurant—stays exactly where it is. Untouched.”
May you like
I stared at him, searching his face for any sign of manipulation. “Why?”
“Because,” Dante murmured, his dark eyes holding mine with an intensity that made my breath catch, “I’m tired of fighting ghosts. And I’m tired of playing games with a woman who looks like a waitress but holds the keys to my entire corporate future.”
