“Tell us about the restaurants,” Emma leaned forward with what seemed like genuine interest. “Rick says you built an empire from nothing.”
“Empire’s too grand a word.” I took another sip, feeling unusually relaxed. “Just hard work and faith in people. Margaret always said to treat employees like family, customers like friends.”
“Don’t be modest, Dad.” Rick refilled my glass before I noticed it had emptied. “Seven locations now. That’s impressive by any standard.”
Seven. He’d been keeping track even during our silence. Something warm expanded in my chest. Maybe he’d cared more than I’d realized. Maria served the soup course with practiced efficiency, though I noticed her hands trembling slightly as she placed the bowl before me. Rich lobster bisque in delicate porcelain, another reminder of how far we’d traveled from my modest Brooklyn kitchen.
“Do you ever think about retirement?” Emma asked casually, cutting her bread with surgical precision.
“The restaurants keep me busy. It’s what Margaret and I built together.” I found myself drinking more freely than usual, the combination of good company and fine alcohol loosening inhibitions I’d maintained for months. “Every location has her fingerprints on it.”
Rick and Emma exchanged a glance I pretended not to notice. They seemed to communicate without words, like couples do after years together. Emma’s hand found mine briefly, her fingers cool against my skin. “But you can’t work forever,” Rick pressed gently. “Have you thought about succession planning? Legal arrangements for the future?”
The question felt oddly specific, but the alcohol made everything seem harmless. “One day at a time, son, one day at a time.”
Maria appeared with the main course, pot roast that smelled exactly like Margaret’s recipe. How had Emma known? We’d shared so few meals together over the years. “This is perfect,” I told her truthfully. “Exactly like my wife used to make.”
Emma’s smile looked painted on. “I wanted tonight to be special, to remind you that family takes care of family.”
As we ate, Rick regaled me with stories about his real estate ventures, though his explanations remained frustratingly vague. Emma asked pointed questions about restaurant operations, profit margins, property values. Their curiosity felt intense, almost professional. The room grew warmer as the evening progressed. My head felt lighter than it should have after just two glasses of whiskey. Rich food, good company, and the relief of reconciliation, I told myself. Nothing more than that.
Rick checked his watch when he thought I wasn’t looking. Emma monitored my consumption like a bartender tracking a regular customer. Maria moved between kitchen and dining room with nervous efficiency, dropping a fork that clattered against marble floors. Something nagged at the edge of my consciousness, but the whiskey made thinking difficult. Everything felt slightly surreal, like watching myself from outside my body. When had I become such a lightweight?
“Dad, let me show you pictures of our newest restaurant location,” I said, reaching into my jacket pocket for my phone. “The Queens opening last month? Margaret would have been so proud of how the community welcomed us.”
My phone vibrated against my palm just as I started to pull it out. The vibration startled me mid-sentence. “Sorry,” I mumbled, glancing apologetically at Rick and Emma. “Probably just the night manager with some routine question.”
But the number on my screen belonged to no one I recognized. A local area code, but completely foreign digits. I frowned, thumb hovering over the notification. Restaurant emergencies came from familiar numbers: Miguel from the Park Slope location, Sarah from the Crown Heights spot, Tony from our newest Queens venture. The phone buzzed again, more insistently this time.
“Everything all right?” Rick asked, leaning forward with what seemed like excessive concern.
“Just… unfamiliar number.” I shielded the screen partially with my napkin, driven by an instinct I couldn’t explain. The text message appeared in stark capital letters: STAND UP AND LEAVE. NOW. SAY NOTHING TO YOUR SON.
My blood turned cold. The elegant dining room suddenly felt like it was tilting, though I couldn’t tell if that was shock or the whiskey making my head swim. I read the message again, certain I’d misunderstood. Same words, same urgent command.
“Dad?” Emma’s voice seemed to come from far away. “You look pale. Are you feeling all right?”
I forced my features into what I hoped resembled normalcy, slipping the phone back into my pocket with hands that trembled more than they should. “Fine. Just… rich food hitting me harder than expected.”
But I wasn’t fine. Someone unknown had my private number, knew where I was, felt compelled to warn me about… what? About Rick? About this perfect evening that suddenly felt like an elaborate stage production? The whiskey glass in my hand caught the chandelier light, amber liquid swirling as my fingers shook imperceptibly. When had I become this dizzy? Two glasses shouldn’t affect me this strongly, not with a full meal.
“Maybe some water?” Emma suggested smoothly, already signaling Maria.
Rick studied my face with sharp attention. “You sure you’re okay? You went completely white there for a second.”
“I’m sure.” The lie came easier than it should have. “Just need to… excuse me for a moment. Bathroom?”
“Of course.” Rick pointed toward the hallway. “Second door on the left. We’ll wait for you. Maria’s bringing dessert.”
I stood carefully, testing my balance. The room swayed slightly, but I managed to walk normally toward the hallway. Behind me, Rick and Emma’s voices continued in low, concerned tones. The hallway stretched before me, lined with expensive artwork and subtle lighting. Second door on the left led to what I assumed was a powder room, but instead of turning left, something made me continue straight toward what looked like a kitchen entrance. The anonymous message burned in my memory. Whoever sent it knew something I didn’t. Someone felt I was in enough danger to risk exposure by warning a complete stranger.
Maria stood at an enormous sink, washing crystal glasses with methodical precision. Her back was turned toward me, but she didn’t acknowledge my presence, even though my footsteps must have been audible on the marble floors. She continued her work as if I were invisible. The kitchen’s back door stood just beyond her, leading to what looked like a garden. Freedom. Fresh air. Space to think clearly away from Rick and Emma’s watchful eyes.
I moved quietly past Maria, expecting her to turn, to question my presence, to alert my hosts. She never looked up from her washing, though her shoulders tensed slightly as I passed. The door opened silently onto a manicured lawn that could have belonged to a country club. Motion sensors illuminated my path across perfectly trimmed grass toward a gate in the property’s back fence. My phone felt heavy in my pocket, carrying its mysterious warning like a ticking bomb.
Street lamps beyond the fence promised anonymity, distance from whatever danger had prompted that urgent message. I walked faster, my dress shoes slipping slightly on dewy grass, not caring about stains or appearances anymore. The gate opened onto a quiet residential street, lined with mansions that probably housed millionaires and their secrets. I pulled out my phone with trembling fingers, opened my ride-sharing app, and requested a pickup one block away from Rick’s address. Five minutes until arrival. Five minutes to decide whether I was being paranoid or protecting myself from something real.
The phone in my hand felt like evidence of conspiracy or paranoia—I couldn’t tell which—but that message, those urgent capital letters, had triggered every survival instinct Margaret’s practical wisdom had ever taught me. “When someone warns you about danger,” she’d always said, “listen first and ask questions later.”
The Uber’s headlights appeared at the end of the block, cutting through suburban darkness like a lifeline. I climbed into the back seat, gave the driver my Brooklyn address, and immediately dialed the number that had shattered my evening. It rang twice before a voice answered—careful, anonymous, deliberately neutral.