Hand over the restaurant keys, Grandma, or we’re putting you in a home tonight

I set the wooden spoon down on the host stand very gently. “Tyler,” I said, “before I sign anything, let Nonna feed you one last time. Sit.” Brittany rolled her eyes, but Tyler smelled victory and dropped into the booth where Salvatore used to read his newspaper. I brought out two plates of gnocchi and a manila envelope. “Eat,” I said. “Read.” Tyler opened the envelope while chewing. His jaw slowed. Then stopped. Inside were the incorporation papers he’d filed last month — the shell company he’d set up to “manage” my finances after declaring me incompetent. Attached was a letter from Dr. Marino, my physician of thirty years, certifying I was of perfectly sound mind. Beneath that, a forensic accountant’s report showing the $84,000 Tyler had already siphoned from the restaurant’s operating account using the power of attorney he’d tricked me into signing at Christmas — the one my lawyer had quietly revoked in January. “Grandma —” he started. “I’m not finished,” I said. I slid the last document across the table. The deed to Rosetti’s, transferred six weeks ago to a nonprofit culinary school for foster kids that I founded in Salvatore’s name. “You can’t own what I don’t own anymore, sweetheart.” Brittany’s fork clattered. Tyler went the color of raw veal. The front door chimed. Two detectives walked in, along with my grandson Marco — the quiet one, the one who actually visited on Sundays. “Elder financial abuse is a felony in this state,” the taller detective said. “Mrs. Rosetti, is this the young man?” I looked at Tyler, at the boy I had rocked to sleep, at the man who tried to bury me alive for a building. “That’s him,” I said. “Make sure he gets a warm bed tonight.” Then I picked up my wooden spoon, walked back to my kitchen, and started prep for tomorrow’s lunch service.”