Chapter 2 - The Weight of a LedgerThe kitchen doors swung shut behind me, trapping the frantic heat, the sizzle of searing pans, and the terrified whispers of three line cooks who had just watched me play chicken with the most dangerous man on the East Coast.
“Are you insane?!” Richard hissed, scrambling through the swinging doors behind me, his face the color of skim milk. He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my cotton shirt. “Tessa, do you have any idea what you just did? That’s Salvatore Rossi! They say he buried three federal prosecutors in the foundation of the Brooklyn Bridge back in the nineties! If he decides to have you dissolved in acid, the police won't even investigate until next Tuesday!”
“Relax, Richard,” I said, gently pulling my arm from his grip and picking up a clean order pad. “He wants a ribeye, bone-in, charred over an open flame with garlic and olive oil. And he asked for the 2012 Nero d'Avola from the private cellar.”
“The private cellar?!” Richard clutched his thinning hair. “That wine belongs to the owner! It’s four hundred dollars a bottle!”
“Put it on their tab,” a deep, velvety voice murmured from the doorway.
We both jumped. Gabriel Rossi stood in the entrance of the kitchen, having slipped through the swinging doors without a sound. Despite his expensive bespoke suit and the aura of untouchable authority that clung to him, he looked completely out of place among the flour dust and steam of a restaurant kitchen. Yet, none of the line cooks dared to look him in the eye.
Gabriel walked slowly toward me, his hands tucked casually into his trouser pockets. Up close, his gray-flecked hazel eyes were piercing, carrying the weight of a dynasty built on blood, extortion, and silent intimidation. But right now, there was a faint, amused twitch at the corner of his mouth.
“My father hasn’t eaten a proper meal in three months,” Gabriel said, stopping two feet away from me. The scent of cedarwood, expensive tobacco, and rain drifted off his wool jacket. “Every chef in Manhattan has tried to cater to him, and he sends every plate back. Yet, you insulted him in a dying dialect, and now he’s practically purring like a stray cat.”
“I didn't insult him,” I replied, tying my apron tighter around my waist. “I corrected him. There's a difference. People who spend their whole lives surrounded by yes-men forget what honest food—and honest conversation—sounds like.”
Gabriel tilted his head, studying me with an intensity that made my stomach do a strange, involuntary flip. “Honest conversation. In Ilvento. That’s a bold phrase for someone making minimum wage plus tips.”
“Minimum wage pays for my mother’s oxygen concentrator, Mr. Rossi,” I shot back, holding my ground. “Honest conversation is a luxury I usually reserve for people who don't have bodyguards standing outside the bathroom.”
A sudden, sharp bark of laughter escaped Gabriel’s lips. It was a rich, genuine sound that completely transformed his stern face, making him look less like an heir to a criminal empire and more like a thirty-two-year-old man who hadn't slept properly in a decade.
“You have remarkable nerve, Tessa,” Gabriel said softly, using my name as if he had known it for years—which, considering how closely his people monitored everyone around them, he probably had. “My father wants you to pour the wine yourself.”
“I’m a waitress, not a sommelier,” I muttered.
“Tonight,” Gabriel said, stepping just a fraction closer, his voice dropping an octave, “you’re whatever my father wants you to be. Play along, and I’ll make sure your mother’s medical bills are cleared by midnight. Permanently.”
May you like
My breath hitched. The final-notice medical bills—twelve thousand dollars sitting in a blue folder on my kitchen table—had been keeping me awake for three weeks.
Before I could answer, Gabriel turned and walked back out toward the dining room, leaving me standing in the middle of the kitchen with a heavy tray and a choice that would permanently seal my fate.
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