by Nicole Fox
With utter casualness, Kazimierz presses the lit cigarette down onto the man’s bruised and scarred forearm.
Skin sizzles and burns. Neither man flinches.
When the cigarette is stubbed out, the man takes the crumpled butt from Kazimierz and tucks it away in his shirt pocket.
The whole charade makes me want to vomit.
Kazimierz means every word he’s saying.
“But since we’re trading warnings,” Kazimierz continues, “Let me return the favor. I am not my brother.”
I’m done here. I’ve seen enough—far too fucking much, actually.
I get to my feet and Adriano does the same.
“I don’t give a fuck who you are. We are the Mazzeo mafia, and if any of your men so much as step foot on my territory, I will rain hell down upon you.”
Kazimierz stares at me balefully for a long moment.
Then he grins. Like this is all just a funny little joke to him.
He’s a few inches shorter than me when he stands lazily.
“She must be some woman,” he remarks.
At a tilt of his head, he and his second-in-command head for the door. The smell of burnt flesh lingers in the room.
“But remember, brother: the world is full of snakes. The most dangerous are the ones you least expect.”
Then he’s gone.
“Fucking hell!” Adriano hisses the moment the door closes on Kazimierz and his pawn. “What the fuck was that?”
“That,” I say darkly, “is a big fucking problem.”
38
Charlotte
A Few Days Later—Lucio’s Kitchen
I open the refrigerator and stop short when I realize it’s been restocked.
And not with just any old ingredients.
This is like if Mark Zuckerberg and Bill Gates pooled all their resources to fund the best goddamn fridge restock in history.
“Jesus,” I breathe out loud.
There’s a cut of A5 wagyu beef, marbled and glistening.
White Alba truffles that cost more per ounce than gold.
Beluga caviar from Iran, fresh-caught lobster still dripping seawater, slabs of dark artisanal chocolate.
I take an unconscious step backwards. I think part of me is afraid that it’ll all spoil if I even look at this stuff for too long.
Like all this rich people food will just go, “Nope, you’re a peasant—this isn’t for you,” and simply rot itself out of existence.
“What do you think?”
I whirl around to face the person who just spoke.
He’s standing by the kitchen island, looking incredibly hot in a gray t-shirt and blood-red swim trunks.
“Is this your way of telling me what you expect to eat tonight?” I ask him.
I’m being sassy, as per usual, but I can’t keep the intimidated warble out of my voice.
I honestly don’t know if I should be amused or irritated.
Lucio smiles, and I feel a lash of electricity snake from my chest to my legs.
Damn him and his devil-may-care smile. It isn’t fair.
“Well, we’re having a guest for dinner,” he murmurs.
My face drops immediately.
The last time Lucio had had company, I’d come one kettlebell away from a vicious rape. Instead, I ended up as witness to a brutal murder.
You know you’ve had a bad night when “watching someone get his head bashed in” is the lesser of two evils.
He notices my expression instantly.
“This guest is different,” he says quickly. “It won’t be like the last time.”
“All the same, I’d rather just make the meal and go up to my room,” I tell him.
Lucio walks closer to me, and I wonder what exactly is going on.
“I think you’re gonna want to meet this guest.”
I frown, but before I can ask him what he means, Evie runs into the kitchen from the sliding door that leads to the pool patio.
“Lucio!” she says. “Come swim with me.”
“Coming, tesoro,” he replies. “Just give me five minutes, okay?”
She sighs impatiently and heads back outside in her little pink one-piece bathing suit.
“Why would I want to meet your guest?” I ask curiously.
“As a matter of fact, you know him already. Well, you know of him.”
I stare at him. “You’re not making me feel any better. Please tell me this isn’t another mob dude.”
He rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t aware you knew so many.”
Fuck.
I really need to watch my mouth. The threat of the Polish may be dormant at the moment, but that doesn’t mean it can’t blow up at the slightest provocation.
“For fuck’s sake, stop playing games with my heart and tell me who’s coming!” I pout.
He smirks. “Edmund Santiago.”
My jaw drops. I splutter for a second, but no real words come out.
He laughs at my reaction. “Surprised?”
“You… you… you…” I gasp, feeling a panic attack on the horizon. “And I’m going to be doing the cooking?”
“That’s what I was hoping.”
“I can’t… I mean… Okay, shit. Let’s start at the beginning.” I breathe and try to get myself back in balance. “First of all: you know Edmund Santiago? I thought that was just, like, a weird man-crush you were hiding.”
Lucio’s eyes flash with mirth. “Why? Because I’ve got three of his cookbooks in the library?” Lucio asks. “They were all gifts from him. The man’s a great chef, but he’s got an ego the size of Jupiter.”
“Don’t all men?”
He grimaces. “Hey, I’m trying to do you a favor here.”
I stop short. “What do you mean, ‘a favor’?”
“Well, if he likes your cooking, there’s every chance he will offer you a gateway into the culinary world.”
My eyes go wide with amazement. “Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t ask you to do this.”
“I did it because I wanted to,” he corrects unapologetically. “You’re a good chef. You should have the opportunity to prove it.”
“What exactly have you told him?” I ask suspiciously.
“Just that my nanny also happens to be a talented cook, and he should consider you for a position in one of his restaurants.”
I should be thankful.
I should be proud.
Instead, I just feel embarrassment burn onto my face.
Because I’m trapped between a rock and a hard place. I’m touched that Lucio has arranged this for me, but I’m mortified in equal measure.
“Lucio, I—”
“Papa! Come swim with me!”
We both turn in the direction of the pool where Evie’s splashing around trying to get our attention.
“I should go before the little demon comes running in here again,” he says. “Better start thinking about what you want to cook. He’ll arrive at eight.”
Then, without giving me a chance to speak, he walks out onto the patio and heads for the pool.
“Shit,” I breathe out, trying to calm myself. “C’mon, Charlotte. Get a fucking grip.”
I glance at the clock. It’s already five, which means I have less than three hours to prepare something amazing for one of the most celebrated chefs in the country.
I decide to unpack my feelings later and just get to work.
First things first, I need to plan my menu.
I decide to go for a simple and straightforward three courses.
Course one: Mushroom ravioli in a burnt butter sauce.
Course two: Lobster with potato galette, asparagus, a caramel miso jus, and caviar.
Course three: Profiteroles with chili chocolate ganache and salted caramel drizzle.
I start the prep work for some of my components, but the whole damn time, I second-guess every decision I’ve made in the process.
Is ravioli too simple?
<
br /> Is the caviar going to overpower the main?
Is the dessert going to be balanced enough?
I want to run out onto the pool deck and scream at Lucio. He hasn’t given me any notice. No time to prepare, mentally or otherwise.
I feel like I’m drowning.
But when I get into the thick of it, my mind turns off and my instincts kick in.
And I actually start to get pumped.
I’m only vaguely aware of Lucio and Evie moving through the kitchen to get changed after their dip in the pool. I wave at them, but I don’t register anything they say to me.
I do the prep work for my lobster. When I turn, Lucio is standing a few feet away from me dressed in dark jeans and a long-sleeved shirt.
“How did you get changed so fast?” I ask distractedly.
“That was an hour ago, Charlotte,” he says in confusion.
“Fuck, was it? Wait—what’s the time?” I whirl around to check on everything I’ve got going.
I’m on the verge of another panic attack when I sense his hands come down around my shoulders.
He spins me slowly to face him, until all I can see are his gray eyes.
“Charlotte,” he says gently. “You need to calm down. You need to breathe.”
“I can’t believe you did this to me,” I snap.
His eyebrows rise. “What did I do?”
I shake him off and stomp towards the stove to check on I-don’t-even-know-what.
“You sprung this on me without any warning!” I grumble, completely frazzled. “And look: it’s almost seven-thirty and I have a whole bunch of shit I need to get done. And I—”
“Breathe.”
I glare at him. “It’s hard to breathe when I know Edmund Santiago is going to be here in half an hour.”
“Charlotte, you’ve got this.”
Something about his voice finally makes contact. Finally breaks through the rising fog of anxiety that’s suffocating me.
I close my eyes. This time, I make a real attempt to breathe.
“It seems I underestimated your reaction to this dinner,” Lucio says, a note of amusement in his tone.
My eyes fly open. “You think?!”
I can tell he’s trying to stifle his laughter.
“Where’s Evie, by the way?” I demand.
“In bed. Asleep.”
“Already?” I ask in amazement.
“It’s seven-thirty,” he shrugs. “And school tires her out.”
“Right. It’s just that she usually needs me to sleep.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Jealous?”
“Very funny,” I snap, turning from him.
“Charlotte, why don’t you go get changed?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, whirling around.
“Look at yourself.”
I look down and realize he’s right. I’m wearing torn jeans and a stained t-shirt, and I’ve practically sweated through it at this point. Not to mention the myriad of stains and spills and burns from my frantic cooking.
“Shit!”
He chuckles. “Go on. You have time.”
I look nervously around the kitchen. My profiteroles will take a little longer in the oven, so I have time.
“Okay, I’ll be back in ten.”
“Wear something nice,” he calls after me. “Lots of cleavage!”
“Fuck you!” I fling back playfully as I head towards the stairs.
I don’t admit to Lucio that I plan to wear exactly that.
Not for Edmund.
But for him.
Exactly nine minutes later, I rush into the kitchen wearing a simple teal blue dress. I’ve swept my hair up into a messy bun and I’ve only put on a light coating of lip gloss.
I care less about what I look like tonight, anyway.
This is about my food.
Lucio whistles when I reappear. “Whoa, that was fast.”
“Have you touched anything?” I demand.
“Kept my hands to myself,” he promises. “Tell me, are you always this savage in the kitchen?”
“Only when world-renowned chefs are coming for dinner.”
A ping sounds on Lucio’s phone and he glances down at it. “Hm. Someone’s early.”
“Shit, is he here?” I gasp. “Fucking fuck, I’m not ready.”
He rests a hand on my shoulder again reassuringly. “I’ll take him to the drawing room and pour him a glass of wine. Keep breathing. You’re doing great.”
“Right,” I say, patting down my dress. “Yeah. Okay. Wine is good.”
Satisfied, he turns to go greet Edmund.
But just before he leaves the kitchen, Lucio glances back at me. “Oh, and by the way?”
“Yeah?” I ask, bracing for the worst.
“You look beautiful.”
Then he disappears around the corner.
Only a second later do I register that there’s a smile on my face.
“Snap out of it,” I scold myself. “Don’t get carried away.”
I look around at the messy kitchen and the meal I’ve slaved over for the past several hours.
And suddenly… my adrenaline kind of flatlines.
Edmund Santiago must know who Lucio really is. Which means he must know that his invitation here had an ulterior motive.
It probably won’t take him long to figure out what.
And when that happens, what could he do?
Of course he’d offer me a job in his restaurant. How can he say no to Lucio Mazzeo? How can anyone?
Half an hour later, when Lucio introduces me to the famous chef, I smile politely and shake his hand.
He’s shorter, stouter, and hairier than any of his pictures, with a bulbous nose and a bright hazel eyes. He’s a chatty man, but I don’t trust his friendliness.
I don’t trust anything these days.
I stick to the script. Engage in polite conversation when necessary and serve him my food with minimal commentary.
He’s thoughtful when he eats, but he doesn’t give away much.
Not until the end of the night, when he turns to me and folds his hands in his lap.
“Your meal was delicious.”
I immediately dissolve into a blubbery mess.
“I under-salted the filling in the ravioli,” I blurt. “And I over-seasoned the lobster.”
“The bitterness in the jus balanced it out,” Santiago reassures me.
I look down, embarrassed beyond measure. “The jus wasn’t meant to be bitter at all.”
He hesitates only for a second. “A happy mistake, then. The best kind.”
I grit my teeth and bite back the angry tears as I force a smile onto my face. “Thank you, Chef.”
“You know,” he remarks, “I’m looking for a pair of extra hands for one of my restaurants. You might have heard of it—Echo?”
That’s an understatement. Echo has two Michelin stars and a waiting list for reservations that’s twelve months long.
But I don’t let my inner fan-girl show.
“I have heard of it,” I say smoothly.
“How flattering. Well, we’re understaffed in the kitchen and you’d make a great fit.”
“You think so?” I ask, feigning enthusiasm.
An unpleasant feeling is gnawing at my insides. Like I’m cold within and sweating without.
“I do. You’d start as an apprentice, of course. Learn a bit about the kitchen, work with the line, gain some experience. It’s a marvelous opportunity.”
The cold gets colder.
The hot gets hotter.
This isn’t how this is supposed to go. Not the evening—I mean my whole cursed life.
“I’m sure it is, Mr. Santiago, and I’m so grateful you would offer it to me,” I reply politely. “But I’m going to need to think about it.”
I see his smile falter just a little. Clearly, he wasn’t expecting such a lukewarm response.
Over his shoulder, I notice that Lucio is staring at me in total bewilderment.
Santiago regains his composure. “Of course. Think about it. Very wise.”
He’s as charming as ever. It’s not fair to distrust him.
I’m the one with the problems. With the demons. With the past I can’t outrun, always screaming in my ear, You’re not good enough!
When the evening ends, I leave the dining room for the kitchen. Lucio escorts Santiago to his vehicle.
I’m still there when Lucio barges in ten minutes later.
“You’ll fucking think about it?” he snarls the moment we make eye contact.
“Hello to you, too.”
“What was wrong with you tonight?”
“Nothing.”
“Charlotte.”
I whirl around. “I appreciate what you tried to do and everything… but you had no right,” I grit. “I told you I wanted to do this on my own.”
“Do what, exactly?” he scoffs. “You weren’t doing anything to pursue your interest in cooking. Which is why I thought I’d help.”
“I didn’t ask for your help.”
“Jesus,” he groans, throwing his hands up in frustration. “You’re being an ungrateful bitch right now.”
“And you’re being an insensitive asshole!” I yell back. “There were so many flaws with my menu tonight. I made so many mistakes. And he still offered me a job.”
“Your point?” Lucio asks coldly.
“My point is that he would have offered me a job even if I’d served him a rotting human head! He did it because of you. It had nothing to do with my cooking ability.”
He shakes his head. “That’s bullshit.”
“No, it’s the truth,” I snap. “You didn’t do me a favor. You embarrassed and humiliated me.”
“Jesus fucking Christ!” he explodes. “I was trying to do something nice for you.”
“Don’t play the martyr. It doesn’t fucking suit you. You did this because you wanted me to be indebted to you.”
“Excuse me?” he growls. His tone drops down low and his eyes darken with anger.
I know I should stop, but I don’t.
It just feels better to beat up on him for this. Rather than to beat up on myself for the dinner disaster.
I need an outlet for my anger, and he’s the easiest target.
It also helps that he can hold his own.
It would be so much harder to yell at him if he’d just stood there and accepted responsibility for his part in this.