Chapter 9 - The Return to Mare Nostrum
Six months later, on a crisp, golden afternoon in November, a black Rolls-Royce pulled up to the valet stand of Mare Nostrum on Biscayne Bay.
The waterfront restaurant had undergone a complete renovation under Jack's orders. The haughty, unwelcoming atmosphere of the old days had been stripped away, replaced by open-air terraces, live acoustic jazz, and a menu designed by world-renowned chefs.
The valet opened the door, and Tyler hopped out, dressed in a sharp tailored linen blazer, white shorts, and boat shoes. He held my hand as I stepped onto the stone pathway. I wore an elegant emerald-green silk dress, my hair pinned up, radiating a calm grace that had replaced the worn, tired look of survival.
Behind us stepped Jack, looking formidable in a crisp white shirt and dark trousers, his arm naturally wrapping around the small of my back.
The new general manager, a gracious woman named Clara, rushed forward with a radiant smile. ""Mr. Romano, Mrs. Bennett, young Master Tyler! Welcome back. Your table is ready.""
Every head on the terrace turned as we walked through the dining room.
The same wealthy patrons who had watched Steven humiliate us half a year ago were sitting under the white umbrellas. Mrs. Kensington, the socialite who had looked at my faded shoes with disgust that fateful day, nearly dropped her champagne flute when she saw Jack pulling out the plush velvet chair at the finest waterfront corner table for me.
The whispering started instantly:
""That's her... Anna Bennett. The head of the new Romano Oceanic Trust.""
""She controls the entire Biscayne port expansion...""
""And the boy is the heir to the family fortune.""
I didn't care about the whispers, but I smiled at the vindication.
Just then, a waiter approached our table carrying three menus. He stopped dead in his tracks.
It was Steven.
He wasn't wearing his crisp server's tuxedo anymore. He was wearing the drab gray apron of a busboy, holding a plastic tub filled with dirty dishes. After Jack had blacklisted him across every luxury establishment in Florida, no high-end restaurant would hire him. He had begged Clara for a back-of-house washing job just to pay his rent.
When Steven saw me, his face drained of every ounce of blood. The bus tub in his hands began to rattle violently against his belt buckle.
""M-Ma'am..."" Steven stammered, dropping his eyes to the floor. ""Mr. Romano... I am so sorry. I didn't know you would be here today. I’ll go to the dish pit immediately.""
He turned to flee toward the kitchen, exactly as he had forced me to do six months prior.
""Steven,"" I said, my voice carrying clearly over the terrace.
May you like
He froze, trembling, expecting the hammer of the Romano family to crush him once and for all.
""Put the tub down,"" I commanded calmly.
