The Pizza Shop Battle I’ll Never Forget

When my wife Candace and I first got our pizza shop, it felt like a dream. A small neighborhood place with a brick oven, a steady stream of regulars, and the smell of garlic that seemed to hang in the air no matter how much we cleaned. We had bought it from a man named Bill, an older Italian guy who was known around town for having a sharp tongue and an even sharper way with money.

People warned me about him. I didn’t want to believe it. I figured if we worked hard and did things right, everything would be fine. That turned out to be my first mistake.

For a month, Bill had us work under him, watching how he ran the place before we officially took over. He wanted us to “learn the system,” as he called it. I should have walked away after the first week. He would dump ingredients into filthy containers, wipe his hands on a rag that never looked clean, and reuse food that should have been tossed out. The girl who worked for him poured new onions right on top of old ones every single day.

When Candace and I finally took over, we scrubbed every inch of that kitchen. There was mold under the onions and old sauce baked so thick onto the make-line that it took hours to chip off. When it was finally clean, it looked like a brand-new shop. We were proud of it.

Two months later, Bill told me he was selling the building. He said it wasn’t a big deal, that the new owners would keep leasing the pizza shop to us. “Nothing’s changing,” he said.

That was another lie.

A week later, he called and said he was bringing a few people through the shop before opening. “You don’t need to be there,” he told me. “They’re just looking at the building.”

I reminded him that he once told me he didn’t have a key to my shop anymore. He said, “I found it.”

That didn’t sit right with me. The next morning, I showed up early.

When I walked in, a group of strangers were going through my inventory—the food I had just ordered the day before. One guy with a clipboard said, “We’re taking over this place today.”

I said, “No, you’re not. This is my shop.”

He said, “No, we’re taking over.”

I said again, “No, you’re not.”

Right then, the banker and realtor walked in with Bill and his wife. The banker asked me, “Do you have a written contract?”

“I sure do,” I said.

He turned to Bill and said, “Then we have a problem.”

We all sat down at the front table. The banker and realtor had already figured out Bill was lying. They worked out a deal right there. Bill would pay me five thousand dollars to buy me out of my contract, and the new buyers would pay me seventeen hundred dollars for my inventory.

The new buyers never paid a cent.

Before agreeing, I told Bill I wasn’t afraid of him. He had tried to scare me earlier, saying he shoots people. I told him, “That doesn’t scare me.” He didn’t say another word.

The next day, we all met at the bank. Bill, his wife, the banker, the realtor, and the new owners were all there. They wanted me to sign the back of his check so he could cash it, but I refused until I had my money. He also wanted us to put the shop’s phone lines back in his name, but I said no until I got paid.

That’s when he snapped. “Forget him,” he shouted. “I’ll get two new phone numbers.”

The banker looked at him and said calmly, “Bill, take care of this right now.”

Bill turned to his wife and said, “Write him a check for five thousand.”

His wife said, “Are you serious? I have to pay for my own damn pizza shop?”

Candace said, “It’s not your shop. It’s ours.”

Bill’s wife looked stunned. She didn’t even know we’d bought it. He had lied to her and told her we were just renting. But she wrote the check and handed it to me anyway.

I took that check straight to the bank and tried to cash it, but there wasn’t enough money in the account. The banker who knew me told me quietly, “Come back tomorrow morning at eight thirty. Be first in line at the drive-through. Don’t deposit it, cash it outright.”

The next morning, I was parked outside that bank at eight o’clock sharp. The tellers inside saw me waiting and laughed because they knew what was coming.

At eight thirty, I pulled up to the window and slid the check through. The teller smiled and asked, “Would you like to deposit it or withdraw it immediately?”

“I want to withdraw it immediately,” I said.

A few minutes later, she handed me five thousand dollars in cash through the window. I thanked her and drove off.

After that, we released the phone numbers like we promised, but I never got the seventeen hundred dollars from the new buyers.

At least I had my five thousand dollars in hand, and for once, Bill didn’t win. He tried to play his usual game, but this time I was one step ahead.

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Author’s Note: This is a true story from my own life. I changed the names, but everything that happened is exactly how it went down. It was one of those moments that tested my patience, my pride, and my faith, but it also reminded me that the truth always finds a way to surface.