“Get this,” Teresa said, throwing out a hand. “He started uploading the videos to the damn app the kids are all using? What the hell was it called? Doesn’t matter. Anyways, he’s racking up millions of views. Now he’s suddenly making money off of those silly little bird videos and is talking about treating me to a trip to Italy. Can you believe it?”

“I believe you deserve that trip.”

“But just not when this project needs so much oversight, right?” she asked, eyes bright.

“You know me too well.”

“Well enough to know you are going to need something to eat before that meeting, or you’re gonna be an asshole. So I’m gonna run to snag you a turkey club from that deli ‘round the corner. Want anything else? And don’t you dare say a coffee. You got that ridiculously expensive shit you import right over there,” she said as she collected her purse and phone, waving one hand toward the coffee machine.

For a second, I could see her at home, saying something like that to one of her boys. No, we’re not ordering in. I got a lasagna in the fridge. What am I, made of money?

“You’re a saint among women, Teresa,” I said.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Show your appreciation in diamonds, not words.”

With that, she was off, leaving nothing behind but a whiff of that amber scent of her perfume.

I had to admit as I made my way over toward the coffee machine that my stomach actually was objecting to its emptiness. And, somehow, a turkey club was exactly what I was craving.

If I believed in that kind of thing, I’d think Teresa was psychic.

Because by the time I had the food in my stomach—and maybe two more coffees in my bloodstream—I was feeling a lot more optimistic about the Brooklyn club.

Did I like working with partners? No.

I could be an uncompromising man. I knew this business better than anyone else. And I didn’t want to fight with someone over color palettes or what kind of drinks to stock in the bar.

That said, this was the city. Real estate that worked for a club could be hard to come by. The people who held the deeds usually knew what they had and used that as leverage to get more of a say in the business than I liked.

But I’d been here before.

And no one could be worse than that idiot investor from the Bronx who thought stone columns and Greek murals would be the ‘next big thing in discotheques.’

Yeah, the man actually said ‘discotheques.’

I wish I was kidding.

But I’d gotten through that—with the damn Greek murals only in the bathrooms, where they promptly got covered with much more stylistic street murals from the local clientele.