Page 9 of Beautiful Disaster

Jude. Jinx.

Jesus, even their names are similar.

I refuse to believe this is fate despite the niggling thought.

I don’t always make an appearance at my Durango restaurant. While I need to make periodic, unexpected visits to all my restaurants, I trust my managers, whom I carefully vetted and hand-selected, as well as talented chefs.

I moved to Colorado to get away from the pain and my parents. After all that I’d lost, I went no contact with my family for my own sanity. Mostly, I ran from myself, which I came to find out later is next to impossible. Still, I don’t regret the move. I love it here.

I stand in front of the mirror and adjust the burgundy tie with white polka dots, then I shrug on the charcoal-gray suit jacket and button it. After a quick spritz of my cologne, I call myself done.

My heart still aches, renewed from my visit with the cursed box. I’m feeling emotionally strung out, but I need to get my shit together. Life never stands still, no matter how much you’re hurting.

The drive into Durango takes me over thirty minutes. The town is small and quaint, full of charming shops built during the gold and silver rushes of the late 1800s. It’s all historically preserved, full of fine dining and shopping. Tourism keeps this town afloat year-round, attracting nature enthusiasts, hikers, rock climbers, and skiers.

The town is nestled in a valley between the stunning mountain ranges of San Juan and La Plata. While I miss the bustle of New York City, I relish the quiet and solitude. I’ve created a sanctuary for myself here, allowing me to heal a little.

Besides my ranch and horses, Ristorante Vitali is my other haven. I step inside to streamlined, modern decor and design with a touch of rustic reclaimed wood. I chose to stay away from the usual heavy vibe of other Italian restaurants with dark woods, rich colors, and thick fabrics, preferring something lighter and airier.

While I focus on traditional Italian dishes, I allow my chefs to create a few fusion recipes, which are quite popular. We even have pizza for the kids.

The kitchen is open-concept, so diners can sit at the counter and watch my team create their meals. And in the center of the restaurant is a massive fireplace.

The air smells of firewood, garlic, and spices. I take a deep breath of it. God, I love this place. While it can be stressful and a lot of work, it puts my soul at ease.

“Lorenzo,” I greet my chef, clapping his shoulder. “Busy yet?”

Lorenzo Battisti has jet-black hair hidden beneath his chef’s cap. His eyes are as black as his hair. He’s young, but brilliant in the kitchen.

“We’re just getting started, boss,” he says in a thick Italian accent. “But the tables are filling quickly.”

“Excellent. I’ll make my rounds as soon as the tables are filled.”

Lorenzo nods and goes back to sautéing the onions, garlic, and mushrooms.

My office is neat and organized, like everything in my life. It’s about control and structure created from a life of high expectations and demands to succeed. I know myself entirely too well—more than I’d like sometimes.

I try to find work to keep myself busy, but my manager, who’s off today, has everything done. Bills are paid, emails are responded to, and supplies are ordered.

“Well, I guess I’ll get out there,” I say to myself.

When I step out onto the floor, a line is forming by the host stand. Exactly what I want to see.

I scan the crowd. I don’t recognize most of the faces, being tourists, but a few stand out: locals who regularly frequent my restaurant.

Over the past couple of years, I’ve had a few influencers come in and boast about my place, which really helped boost sales.

I amble my way over to a table with four adults. There’s food on their table, and they’ve started to eat. “Good evening. Mason Vitali, at your service. I hope you’re enjoying your meal.”

“Oh, this is so delicious,” says a blonde woman.

“Indeed. We were told to stop by your restaurant when we came to Durango. It’s amazing.”

I give them a courteous bow. “Thank you. I’m pleased you’re enjoying yourselves.” I reach for the glass carafe of water in the middle of the table and fill their glasses. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“We’re perfect, thank you,” she says.

I leave their table and head toward another table of four, but I know these faces. Four ladies, widows, roughly in their seventies, and best friends. They’re usually here only on Saturday nights, but since it’s Tuesday, they must be celebrating. Some of my favorite customers are the regulars.