Chapter 10

I’m in the middle of dinner prep at the restaurant when Caleb pitches me on his ex’s culinary skills.

‘Mixing work and personal life, Caleb? You know how that can go.’  My voice is even but firm.

‘Dad, she’s phenomenal in the kitchen. Remember the handmade ravioli I brought over that one time? The one that had you staring off into space while you ate? That was hers.”

I pause, recalling the dish. ‘It was impressive,’ I admit, my curiosity piqued despite my reservations. ‘What about her experience?’

‘She’s sous chef at Verde Oliva right now. She does their specials.’

I know and like Verde Oliva. It’s known for turning out high-quality dishes.

‘Wait,” I say. “Verde Oliva. That’s Marco DiCampi’s place, isn’t it? She works for him? He’s supposedly a grade-A asshole.’

“Yup,” Caleb says, “one and the same.”

I’m impressed. “Well, if she’s thrived under his reign for two years …”

‘Exactly my point, Dad,’ Caleb says.

‘That’s something,’ I admit grudgingly. Surviving in Marco’s kitchen speaks volumes about her resilience and skill.

Changing gears, Caleb looks around the bustling kitchen. ‘Any chance I can grab something to eat while I’m here? The smell’s killing me.’

I shoot him a look, half amused, half exasperated. ‘Your appetite’s going to bankrupt me one of these days,’ I joke, but I’m already reaching for ingredients. Caleb’s my favorite person to cook for and always has been.

Within minutes, I’ve got a scallops sizzling in a pan.

As I plate the dish, arranging the scallops with a drizzle of sauce, Caleb’s eyes widen. ‘That looks incredible, Dad.’

I carry the plate into my office, where we can continue our conversation away from the cooks in the kitchen. As Caleb dives in with gusto, I can’t help but feel a twinge of pride. Cooking is my language, my way of connecting.

Between bites, he says, ‘You know, she’s really passionate about cooking. It’s not just a job for her; it’s like her calling or something.’

I nod, understanding that feeling all too well. ‘Passion’s what separates the good from the great,’ I agree, suddenly intrigued by the idea of meeting someone with that level of dedication.

‘Why the sudden need for a new sous chef anyway?’ Caleb asks.

I sigh, leaning back in my chair. ‘Sarah is leaving s. Her first baby is due at the end of the month, and she wants to be a stay-at-home mom. It’s a big loss for the team, so I need someone to fill her shoes and get up to speed.’

Caleb’s eyes light up. ‘That’s perfect timing, then. Your kitchen, her talent—it could be the perfect match.’

I pause, considering the possibility of what he’s saying. ‘Tell her to come by and drop off her resume,’ I say, already mapping out in my mind how I’d onboard a new sous chef with such little lead time.

Caleb’s grin widens. ‘Already did that. I stopped there on my way over here.’

I can’t help but laugh, shaking my head at his forwardness. ‘Confident about your sales pitch, huh? Well, if she impresses me, we’ll give her a trial run. See if she can handle the pressure of my kitchen.’

Caleb nods in agreement. ‘Oh, she can.’

Curiosity gets the better of me, and I ask, ‘Why do you care so much about what an ex is up to?’

He leans back, his plate clean, and looks me straight in the eye. ‘Because she’s got real talent, Dad. And talent like that shouldn’t be wasted. She deserves to be doing great things with it. We didn’t work out, but the breakup wasn’t bad, and she’s a great person.’

Hearing the conviction in Caleb’s voice, I can’t argue with that. Talent is the lifeblood of any great kitchen, and if she’s as good as he claims, then maybe she’s exactly what Savor needs right now.

Caleb wipes his mouth on a napkin and stands. ‘I should get going. I need to change before tonight. I have that client dinner for my internship,’ he says.

As he’s about to leave, I can’t resist a little jab, nodding toward the empty plate on the table. ‘Don’t forget to wash that up at the dish area on the way out,’ I tell him, half-serious.

He laughs, the sound echoing in the office. ‘Ah, that’ll bring back memories of my dishwasher days back in undergrad,’ he says, picking up the plate. It’s a small reminder of how far he’s come, from washing dishes in my kitchen to navigating the legal world by interning at a law firm.

With a final wave, Caleb heads out, leaving me alone with my thoughts. The conversation about the potential new hire lingers in my mind. Marco DiCampi, for all his faults, is undeniably talented, and his kitchen is a great proving ground. If she’s managed to thrive there, she’s got the kind of mettle I respect.

Once Caleb’s gone, I step back into the fray of the kitchen, making sure everything’s running smoothly.

Eventually, I retreat to my office, where I await the least favorite part of my day: the administrative side of owning a restaurant. It isn’t glamorous, but it’s necessary. As I sift through invoices and schedules, the thought of bringing in someone new, someone who’s managed to hold her own in Marco’s kitchen, keeps circling back into my thoughts.

I make a mental note to review her resume as soon as it comes in. If she’s as good as Caleb says, I want to see it for myself.

As I plow through the paperwork, the restaurant’s rhythm beginning to hum with the pre-dinner rush energy, my focus is abruptly redirected. The phone buzzes, and it’s Alex, my front-of-house manager.

‘Chef, there’s a gentleman here asking to speak with you privately in your office,’ Alex’s voice carries a note of curiosity, maybe even a hint of concern.

“Is there a reason you’re bothering me with this instead of handling him yourself?”

“Normally, I would. But this guy … he’s a VIP. You’re going to want to talk to him personally.”

‘Lead him back,’ I reply, my interest piqued. Who would request a private meeting now, of all times?

The man who steps into my office a few moments later is immediately familiar. He’s in his sixties, well-dressed with understated elegance. There’s a poised assurance about him and also a hint of menace, not overt but unmistakably there. His hair is jet-black, tinged silver on the sides, slicked back with care.

Luca Amato. Not only does he have a particular reputation around town, but he’s dined at my restaurant more than a few times.

‘Mr. Amato, to what do I owe the pleasure?’ I ask as I stand to greet him.

‘Luca, please,’ he insists, with a polite nod. ‘And as to why I’m here, let me begin by saying I’ve been a patron of your establishment since the doors first opened. You run a fine restaurant, Patrick.’

I’m well aware of Luca’s other reputation—that of a high-ranking member of the Italian mafia in New York.

‘I’m honored to have your continued support, Luca.’

My mind is already racing through potential scenarios—an extortion attempt seems the most likely reason for this visit, but then I catch myself—Luca Amato isn’t the type to personally handle such matters. He has people for that.

Luca’s next question catches me entirely off guard. ‘How much would it cost to rent out your entire restaurant for an evening, one night per month? Say, on a Tuesday? I’m thinking a full five-course meal, including wine and spirits.’

I blink, processing the request. Renting out the entire restaurant is a big ask. ‘I’d need to crunch some numbers,’ I admit. ‘Calculate what we typically bring in on a Tuesday, figure out staffing, a menu, a wine list. It’s a sizable undertaking.’

“I understand.”

‘Why the whole place? Why not just a private room?’ I probe, curious about his intentions.

Luca chuckles, an amusing sound. ‘Do you have a private room I’ve somehow missed all these years?’

I can’t help but laugh along, the shared moment of humor bridging the gap between us momentarily. ‘Fair point. No, we don’t.’

He leans forward, his demeanor serious. ‘My men and I, we love your food, Patrick. And when we have business meetings, we prefer not to do them at home. Renting out your place is the best option for privacy and atmosphere.’

The logic is sound, and I find myself nodding along. The idea of providing an exclusive experience for Luca Amato and his associates is daunting but not without its perks. ‘Give me some time to put together a menu and work out a per-person cost. How many will be attending?’

‘Let’s plan for ten men,’ he says, already one step ahead.

‘Any specific requests for the menu?’ I ask, reaching for a notepad.

Luca doesn’t hesitate. ‘Start with those bacon-wrapped scallops as appetizers. They’re a hit with my boys.’

‘Consider it done,’ I reply, scribbling down notes. The bacon-wrapped scallops are a crowd-pleaser, but ensuring the rest of the menu matches their caliber will be key.

As Luca stands to leave, he hands me a business card. ‘Get me those numbers, Patrick. I’m looking forward to making this a regular thing.’

I watch him leave with a mix of apprehension and excitement. The opportunity to host Luca Amato and his associates once a month could be a boon for Savor, provided I navigate it carefully. The challenge is not only in crafting a menu that impresses Luca but in balancing the demands of a private event with the ethos of my restaurant.

Turning back to my desk, I start jotting down ideas for a menu, my mind already racing with possibilities. This could be a turning point for Savor, a chance to showcase our culinary prowess in a new, albeit unconventional, way.

However, it could also put me squarely in the middle of the mafia’s questionable business practices, and I’m not sure what that could entail or if I’m ready to go there.