“Tell him the buyer wants to remain anonymous until closing. That’s non-negotiable.”
She sighed. “I’ll try.”
My father pushed back. He wanted to know who was buying his restaurant. He wanted to meet them. He wanted assurances that they would maintain his legacy.
I held firm. Anonymous buyer or no deal.
Finally, his lawyer convinced him. Eduardo, you’re in no position to be picky. You have one serious offer. Take it.
The closing was scheduled for October 23rd, 2024, at 2 p.m. at Richard’s office in Century City. I dressed carefully that morning. A black Armani suit, Bhutan heels, my hair pulled back in a sleek bun. I looked like exactly what I was: a successful restaurateur worth $4.7 million on paper.
I arrived at Richard’s office at 1:45 p.m. He had set up the conference room perfectly. Me at the head of the table, my back to the door.
“You sure about this?” Richard asked. “It’s going to be brutal.”
“Good.”
My father arrived at 2:03 p.m. I heard his voice in the lobby, talking to Richard’s assistant, that familiar baritone slightly rougher now with age. My mother was with him. I heard her, too.
Richard brought them into the conference room. I didn’t turn around.
“Mr. and Mrs. Torres, please have a seat,” Richard said.
“We’re just waiting for her.”
“Where’s the buyer?” my father interrupted. “I was told they’d be here.”
“She’s here,” Richard said.
I heard them sit down across from me. I still didn’t turn.
“These are the closing documents,” Richard continued, laying papers on the table. “We’ve structured this as an asset sale. Miss Torres is purchasing the business, the property, all equipment and inventory, the Casa Torres name and trademark.”
“Wait,” my father said. “Miss Torres? The buyer is a woman?”
“Yes.”
“Who is she? What’s her background? What are her plans for the restaurant?”
Richard looked at me. I nodded slightly.
I turned around.
The look on my father’s face was worth every penny of that $1.8 million. His mouth fell open. His face went white, then red, then white again. His hands gripped the edge of the table.
My mother gasped. “Maya?”
“Hello, Papa. Mama.”
My father tried to speak. No words came out.
“You’re buying Casa Torres?” my mother finally managed.
“I am.”
“But how? Where did you get…” She looked around the conference room, at the expensive furniture, at Richard in his $3,000 suit. “I don’t understand.”
“Miss Torres owns and operates twelve restaurants across Southern California,” Richard said smoothly. “Annual revenue of approximately $18 million. She’s purchasing Casa Torres through her company, Marisol Restaurant Group.”
My father found his voice. “Twelve restaurants?”
“Twelve,” I confirmed.
“That’s impossible. You were working at that Italian place making $14 an hour.”
“That was seven years ago, Papa. Things change.”
He stared at me like I was speaking a foreign language. “You own twelve restaurants.”
“I do. Would you like to see the portfolio?”
I slid a folder across the table. He opened it with shaking hands. Photos of each location. Revenue figures. Press clippings. Jonathan Gold’s review. A Forbes article about emerging restaurant entrepreneurs that featured me.
“This is all yours,” he whispered.
“All mine. Well, sixty percent mine. My investor owns forty percent.”