Chapter 25

‘Idon’t want to come off as arrogant,’ I say, setting my fork down with a clink, ‘but this might just be the best meal I’ve ever had a hand in.’

Patrick and I are putting the final garnishes on the entrees, a masterpiece of culinary perfection just waiting to be savored. As the serving staff sweeps the plates away to our guests, we set aside one extra dish of the duck entree for ourselves—a chef’s perk.

Together, we dive into the sample, a seamless blend of flavors that makes me close my eyes in appreciation. It’s absolutely freaking divine.

Patrick grins, his eyes sparkling with pride and something tender that makes my stomach do a little flip. ‘It’s one of my finest, too,’ he admits. ‘Couldn’t have reached this level without you.’

The decadent meal doesn’t quite quell the thrill his words send through me. As the last of the entrees leave the kitchen, Patrick glances at the clock. ‘We’ve got a little time before we need to prep the desserts. You want to take a breather?’

Part of me—a rather bold part—wants to suggest we take that breather in his office, maybe lock the door for a bit. But I bite my tongue, keeping those thoughts firmly in check, at least for now.

‘Sounds like a plan,’ I manage, trying to keep my tone light.

As I start to step away, Patrick’s hand lands gently on my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks. His touch is warm, reassuring, and a little distracting. He looks me straight in the eyes, his gaze sincere. ‘Really, Allie, thank you. Tonight wouldn’t be what it is without your hard work.’

His gratitude warms me more than the bustling heat of the kitchen. ‘Hey, the night’s not over yet,’ I remind him with a playful wag of my finger, trying to keep the mood light despite the fluttering in my chest.

He chuckles, a low sound that rumbles within. ‘You’re right about that,’ he says in that husky tone that always seems to find its way right under my skin. ‘And I’m looking forward to every minute of it.’

His words linger in the air between us, charged and promising. With a final glance, I head off to grab that breather, my mind racing not just with the success of our meal but with the tantalizing possibilities of what the rest of the evening might hold.

I make my way out of the kitchen, heading for the staff restroom, but then it hits me—the guests tonight are all men, no women. Why not indulge in a little luxury and use the posh patron restrooms upfront? If you can’t join them, at least share their marble sinks, right?

Stepping onto the main dining floor, the scene strikes me like a raucous Italian dinner straight out of a movie. Glasses clink, laughter rumbles, and the rich aroma of food mingles with the deep notes of red wine in the air. It’s vibrant, lively, almost theatrical.

As I navigate through the dining room, Luca spots me. He stands up, a respectful nod to old-school chivalry, and strides over with a wide, appreciative smile.

‘Everyone, a moment, please,’ he announces, raising his voice over the chatter. The table quiets down a bit as all eyes turn to me. ‘Allie, this young lady here,’ he gestures to me with a flourish, ‘is the brains behind the incredible meal we’re enjoying tonight.’

I can feel my cheeks warm under the spotlight. ‘Oh, it’s very much a team effort,’ I quickly deflect, nodding toward the kitchen where Patrick is masterminding the rest of the evening. ‘Couldn’t have done it without the big man in the back.’

Luca laughs, clapping me on the shoulder. ‘Modest, too! We like that,’ he says, which earns a round of approving nods and toasts from the table. I can’t help but smile, grateful for the recognition but eager to escape the spotlight.

As I’m soaking in the praise, my gaze inadvertently meets Donnie’s. His eyes are on me, intense and unsettling, like he’s trying to peel back every layer with just his stare. It makes my skin crawl.

Thankfully, Luca, oblivious to the undercurrents, gives me a congenial nod. ‘Go on then; we won’t keep you from your work. And we can’t wait to see what comes out next!’

I murmur my thanks and make my escape, hurrying toward the sanctuary of the bathroom. The marble floors and gilded mirrors of the patron restroom offer a brief respite from the intensity of the dining room. Inside, I take a moment to breathe, leaning against the cool marble of the sink.

I straighten up, fixing a stray lock of hair, steeling myself for the rest of the evening. It’s going to be a long night, and I need to be on top of my game—not just for the guests, but to handle whatever Donnie might throw my way.

My reflection seems to ask the tough questions I’ve been dodging all evening. The whole pregnancy is like a giant elephant in the room, and the idea of breaking the news to Patrick is just daunting. When’s the right time to drop a bombshell like that? Surely not during a dinner rush over a plate of meticulously prepared hors d’oeuvres.

My mind races with possibilities, none of them particularly comforting. Patrick’s a chef to his core, married to the kitchen. The scary thought that he might see this news as just another complication plays over and over in my mind, something he could maybe solve with a check and a pat on the back. But I’ve seen him with Caleb, and he’s a great dad, engaging and caring. It gives me a sliver of hope.

Speaking of Caleb, how will he take the news that his ex is pregnant with his little brother or sister?

I splash some water on my face, trying to cool the flush of anxiety. I need to keep it together, at least until we get through tonight’s dinner service. I’m psyching myself up to have that chat with Patrick soon, once the plates have cleared and we can maybe have a moment of peace.

Drying off my face, I straighten up, smoothing down my chef’s jacket. No more moping around. The night’s not over yet and the kitchen calls. Time to slap on my game face and get back to the pass. The personal stuff will have to wait just a bit longer.

I check myself out in the mirror one last time, take a deep breath, and head back to the heat of the kitchen, ready to tackle whatever the night throws my way.

As I’m about to push open the door and leave the bathroom, Donnie’s unmistakable voice drifts in from just outside. He’s chatting with one of his buddies, and they’re deep in a conversation that’s all too familiar, boasting and swapping crude stories about women.

Rolling my eyes, I grip the door handle tighter, ready to make a quick exit. But then it hits me—if I step out now, I’d be walking straight into them. No thanks. I’d rather not get tangled up in whatever sleazy tale they’re spinning tonight.

Leaning back against the wall of the restroom, I tell myself it’ll just be a minute more. They’ll move along soon, I hope.

Just as I’m starting to tune them out, a snippet of their conversation catches my attention.

‘—just need to take care of the guy,’ Donnie says.

Hearing that, I freeze in place, and my heart thumps a bit harder. Take care of the guy? That doesn’t sound like they’re planning a farewell party.

I inch closer to the door, my ear practically glued to the wood, trying to catch every word. My mind races through the possibilities—none of them good. Is this just macho posturing, or is there something more sinister at play?

As I strain to listen, the voices become clearer. They’re discussing someone who seems to be a problem, someone who’s in the way. The conversation dips into details, money involved, timing. My stomach tightens. This isn’t just locker room talk; it sounds like they’re plotting a murder.

‘Yeah, you know the one; he’s starting to be a real pain,’ Donnie’s voice carries through the door, his tone dismissive but laced with annoyance. ‘I’m tired of waiting around for my big shot, you know? It’s time for me to make a name for myself.”

The other man, his voice lower, sounds hesitant. ‘Donnie, you know that’s just asking for trouble. I don’t even need to tell you all the shit that could go wrong. Are we ready for that?’

Donnie’s laugh is shallow and humorless. ‘Maybe that’s exactly what we need: a show of strength. I’m fed up with this bullshit, tired of always being treated like a fuckin’ kid.”

There’s a pause, the kind that fills the air with tension before the other man sighs. ‘All right, if you think it’s time, then it’s time. But when this is all over and done, you’d better remember how I stuck my neck out for you.”

‘Don’t worry,’ Donnie agrees, his voice firm. ‘You’ll be right there with me at the top.”

Their footsteps start to fade as they walk away, their voices dropping to a murmur before disappearing completely.

I’m left frozen against the wall, my mind racing. This wasn’t just some tough-guy talk or business rivalry; they were discussing something far more dangerous. It’s like something straight out of The Sopranos, except it’s real, and it’s happening right here in my workplace. They were talking about killing someone—an actual hit.

My hands shake slightly as the reality of what I’ve just overheard sets in. I need to tell Patrick, but where do I start? How do I explain that a potential murder is being plotted in his restaurant?

As I weave back through the kitchen, the gears in my head are grinding hard. Patrick’s cozy monthly deal with the Amato crew, clearing out the restaurant for their private dinners, now seems way more dangerous than what I signed up for.

How could I have missed the obvious? Here I am, thinking I’m just whipping up five-star dishes, when it turns out I might be stirring the pot in a whole other world.

The idea of tangling with the mafia—even on the fringes—has me kicking myself. I’ve seen enough movies and read enough headlines to know that this isn’t just some thrilling plot twist—it’s a real danger. Walking away from the job might seem like a simple fix. Cut ties, turn in my apron, and just disappear into the night.

But then there’s the not-so-little issue of the tiny human growing inside me. Quitting would not be merely walking away from my job; I’d also be walking away from Patrick, who happens to be the father of my baby. I’m more tied up in this mess than I realized.

Is Patrick just making a risky business move, or is there something darker lurking in those handshakes? The thought chills me. If he’s mixed up in something dangerous, what does that mean for me? For our kid?

Once these kitchen doors close tonight, I’m going to need some real answers from Patrick. I have to know what kind of trouble we’re really in.