Chapter 31

The weight of my phone feels heavier than usual. Caleb’s name glares back at me and I stare at his number, willing myself to make the call, to bridge the gap with words that seem increasingly inadequate.

The memory of Caleb’s face that day—the shock, the hurt, the raw anger—plays in a loop in my mind. It was a gut punch to see my son look at me that way. I’m torn between the urgency to reach out and the fear of pushing him further away.

But now it’s different. I’m going to be a dad again. And although he’s already aware of that, I need to let him know that we’re having twins.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to steady the churn of emotions within. It’s not just about fixing things anymore; it’s about telling him he’s going to be a big brother to twins. The news should be a joyous surprise, not a complication.

I should be making plans on how to support Allie through her pregnancy, preparing for our future together. Instead, I’m paralyzed by what Caleb might say or do—or not do.

I run a hand through my hair, a familiar frustration building. I’ve never been one to shy away from confrontation or tough decisions in my professional life, but this personal mess has me second-guessing every move I make.

My thumb hovers over the call button. For some reason, I’m more hesitant than the other times I’ve tried to call him.

The phone echoes through the quiet office, ringing unanswered.

Once again, it goes to voicemail, a familiar disappointment clenching in my gut. The impulse to just text Caleb the news is tempting—quick, clean, no immediate confrontation. But dropping news of his upcoming siblings via text doesn’t sit right with me. It’s too impersonal, too detached for something this monumental.

I set my phone down and press the heels of my hands into my eyes, thinking through my options. It’s clear he’s not ready to talk. He needs space, and while it grates on me to give more ground, I have to put his needs ahead of my desire to reconcile.

I get up and step to the door of the office. Leaning against the doorframe, I observe Allie in full command at the center of the kitchen. Her leadership is undeniable as she briefs the team on tonight’s specials.

‘Listen up, everyone! For tonight’s special, we’re doing grilled lamb with mint yogurt. I want the lamb on the grill now, and let’s make sure that sauce is on point. I need a tasting in two minutes,’ she directs, her tone both firm and motivating. The kitchen springs into action, and everyone is sharply focused.

Turning to another part of the kitchen, she continues, ‘Miguel, how’s the progress on the starters?’ Her gaze locks onto the prep station where Miguel is meticulously assembling the appetizers.

‘Just a few touches left, Chef,’ Miguel calls back, his voice respectful but eager to impress. He holds up a tray for her inspection, visibly proud of his work.

Allie examines each plate carefully, her keen eyes missing nothing. ‘These are beautifully done, but remember, consistency is key. Every plate that goes out should look like this one,’ she instructs, pointing to the plate that best exemplifies her standards.

‘Understood, Chef. Thank you,’ Miguel responds, his smile broadening with the praise and clear direction.

A surge of pride lifts the weight from my chest. Allie’s a damn powerhouse in her own right, handling the kitchen with a blend of finesse and firmness that demands respect.

That’s where my focus should be—on the present, on the family we’re building, and on the lives she’s carrying. Caleb’s issues and his acceptance of the situation will have to wait. We have immediate priorities that can’t be sidelined.

My resolve firms as I push from the doorframe, deciding to join her in the fray. Tonight isn’t for dwelling on what’s broken but for strengthening what we’re building.

I catch her eye across the room, and she shoots me a smile that could light up the darkest corners of any room. I beckon her over, needing a moment with her amidst the chaos.

“How’s it going, Chef? Feeling ready to tackle the dinner rush?” I ask as she steps into the quieter sanctuary of my office.

She gives a small, confident nod. “I’m good. It’s a lot, but I’m more excited than anything,” she replies, a hint of exhilaration in her voice.

I can’t help but throw in a tease. “I can’t believe I’m about to lose another brilliant sous chef to maternity leave. What’s my kitchen going to do without you?”

Her response comes with a playful glint, “Are you complaining, or just worried you’ll miss me too much?”

“Complain? Never. Honestly, I couldn’t be happier,” I assure her, my tone deepening with sincerity. Seizing the moment, I pull her close, away from the kitchen’s prying eyes. I take her face in my hands, kissing her deeply, tenderly. The kiss leaves us both a little breathless and Allie slightly dazed—a look that stirs a deeper desire in me. I want more. But her expression shifts to something more solemn.

‘Have you talked to Caleb yet?’ she asks, her voice tinged with concern.

Immediately, she bites her lip, regretting the intrusion. ‘Sorry, it’s not my place to ask.’

I shake my head, dismissing her apology with a firm squeeze of her hand. ‘No, it is your place. You’re part of my family now.’ My voice softens. ‘And no, he’s still not responded. Nothing.’

She meets my gaze, her eyes sincere, her grip tightening reassuringly. ‘He’ll come around, Patrick. He just needs time.’

Her words, hopeful and supportive, help ease the knot of worry in my chest.

I scan the bustling kitchen, calculating the best timing for our little announcement. Drawing back into my office, I close the door with a decisive click and turn to Allie.

‘We’ve got to strategize on breaking the news to the team,’ I say, my voice firm but low, aware of the thin walls. ‘I’m thrilled about the twins, really, but I’m not exactly excited about the potential gossip storm.’

Allie flashes that daring grin of hers, shrugging off the weight of my words. ‘Let them talk,’ she challenges, her tone light but her eyes sparking with mischief.

Her boldness is a turn-on, and I’m about to kiss her when the ringing of the office phone interrupts us.

I pick it up, and the tentative but urgent voice of our hostess greets me. ‘Chef, there’s a gentleman here to see you. He says he’s an associate of Luca Amato.’

I straighten up, my irritation spiking. ‘We’re not open yet. Why is he here?’ Normally, I would dismiss such an unexpected visitor, but the mention of Luca’s name stops me.

I pause, taking a deep breath to temper my response. ‘All right, I’ll be right there. Keep him comfortable,’ I say, keeping my voice measured and cool. I hang up, a heavy sigh escaping me as I prepare to deal with whatever this could mean.

Allie immediately notices the change in my demeanor, and her face is lined with concern. “Is everything okay?”

“Just business,” I assure her, masking my annoyance. “Luca Amato’s people.”

Understanding with a bit of worry flickers in her eyes. She nods toward the kitchen. “I should head back anyway.”

I run a hand through my hair, my thoughts racing as I prepare myself for the meeting. The more I think about it, the more I question my decision to get involved with Luca Amato. The whispers are always the same: Once you’re in with the Mafia, you’re never really out. They expect things, and those expectations can mold your life in ways you never intended.

With a resigned sigh, I leave the sanctuary of my office and make my way through the kitchen to the front of the house. The staff is in full swing, setting up tables and polishing glasses, the usual pre-service buzz filling the air.

I spot him as I approach the bar. He is a man who doesn’t just wear a suit but defines it, exuding an air of quiet danger. His demeanor isn’t loud or overt, but there’s an undeniable presence about him, a calm sort of menace that seems to say he’s used to being listened to and obeyed.

Steeling myself, I straighten my chef’s jacket and head over. This is the bed I’ve made, and now I have to lie in it, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

The man stands as I approach, offering a firm handshake that’s as calculated as his gaze. ‘I’m Matteo Rossi,’ he introduces himself with a slight nod, his voice smooth and confident. ‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting the chef Luca speaks so highly of.’

I nod in acknowledgment, keeping my expression neutral. ‘Well, you’ve found him. I’m Patrick Spellman. What can I do for you, Mr. Rossi?’ I ask, cutting straight to the point. Time is precious, and so is clarity in these sorts of dealings.

Matteo’s smile doesn’t waver as he responds. ‘Luca was exceptionally pleased with last Tuesday’s service. So much so, he’d like to book the restaurant for this coming Tuesday as well.’

I raise an eyebrow, my interest piqued despite my reservations. ‘That soon?’ I ask, already calculating the logistical adjustments needed.

‘Yes,’ Matteo continues, his gaze steady. ‘He has a very important guest arriving from Sicily. Luca wants to ensure that his associate experiences the best cuisine New York has to offer. Naturally, he thought of Savor.’

I pause, letting the implications of his words sink in. Luca’s satisfaction could mean good business, but it also deepens the ties that I’m increasingly unsure about. Yet refusing isn’t a simple option—not without consequences.

I weigh his request against the restaurant’s schedule, feeling the pressure of his insistence. ‘I appreciate the urgency, Mr. Rossi, but we’re already booked for that evening. I can’t just cancel on other patrons. It would be bad for business,’ I state, keeping my tone authoritative yet open to negotiation.

Matteo, unflinching and clearly used to getting his way, leans forward slightly. ‘Mr. Amato was very clear about wanting this upcoming Tuesday. He’s willing to make it substantially worth your while,’ he presses.

The mention of additional payment piques my interest, especially with twins now on the way, but delving in deeper with the Mafia is a dangerous path, one I’m not willing to risk the safety of my family for. My arrangement with Luca Amato was originally for one night a month. Asking for another night only a week later will most likely turn into asking for more nights throughout the month.

What have I gotten myself into?

Turning back to Matteo, I make a decision, allowing my business acumen to take over. ‘If I can rearrange the reservations, we’ll have a deal. I’ll offer them something on the house to shift to another night. But let me make myself clear, Mr. Rossi. This is a one-time occurrence. I will not adjust reservations again, not for Mr. Amato or anybody else. Got it?’

Matteo’s expression shifts to one of smug satisfaction akin to a shark smelling blood in the water. ‘That sounds like a plan. Luca will be very pleased,’ he states confidently, the underlying threat clear.

I extend my hand, sealing the tentative deal with a firm shake. ‘I’ll get on it right away and confirm with you by tomorrow.’

As Matteo prepares to leave, he throws one last proposition into the mix, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. ‘Luca wanted you to know that he has some connections with the Michelin Guide reviewers. He believes Savor is a prime candidate for their attention.’

I stiffen, my brow furrowing. ‘I trust you’re not suggesting anything improper. We earn our accolades fairly here.’

‘Of course, nothing untoward,’ Rossi assures quickly, a sleek smile playing on his lips. ‘Luca would merely ensure that your talents are appropriately showcased sooner rather than later.’

I exhale slowly, the lure of a Michelin Star not lost on me, but the potential strings attached regarding Luca make me wary. ‘Perhaps,’ I concede, my response noncommittal but open.

‘Excellent,’ Rossi says, satisfaction evident. ‘Expect ten guests. I’ll need the menu details by tomorrow to pass along to Luca.’ He passes me a business card with his contact information.

‘Understood,’ I reply, my mind already racing through possible dishes that could dazzle the toughest critics. ‘I’ll draft something and send it over.’

With a final nod of approval, Rossi departs, leaving me to ponder the fine line between seizing opportunity and maintaining integrity. As the door closes behind him, the depth of the moment hangs heavily in the air.

I watch Rossi slip into a sleek black luxury car, his departure smooth and swift. As the vehicle glides away, I stand there for a moment longer, the weight of our agreement settling over me.

Running a hand through my hair, I try to shake off the unease that clings stubbornly. The money is good—great, even—and this could catapult Savor into a new realm of culinary acclaim. Yet the nagging feeling in my gut tells me I’m playing with fire.

This isn’t just about me anymore.

With a deep breath, I turn toward the kitchen, the familiar clatter and bustle drawing me back to reality. As I push through the doors, the heat from the stoves and the focus of my team reorients me.

My kitchen, my restaurant, is my haven, and no one is going to change that.