Dead Man's Hand

Chapter 1-4

Marissa

“Watch out, Henry’s on a rampage,” I warn my fellow line chef, Lilah, as I stir the marinara sauce. The temperamental chef’s been ripping everyone a new one right and left.

She rolls her caramel-colored eyes. “When is he not?”

“Well, I guess if I were head chef, I might be a temperamental b***h, too,” I murmur in an undertone as I pull two stuffed chicken breasts from the oven and plate them. “At least we know what to expect. But you know what I really can’t handle anymore?”

Lilah chops asparagus on the diagonal making them all the same exact length. “Arnie?” she whispers back.

“Yeah.” Arnie, the figlio di puttana sous chef is a leering, groping dickwad who somehow thinks all the women in the kitchen are dying to suck him off. “He patted my a*s in the walk-in tonight. Patted. It was gross on top of inappropriate.”

“Yeah, if you’re going to grab-a*s, at least make it firm, right?” Lilah grins, dimples creasing her chocolate-brown skin.

I snort. Lilah always makes me laugh. She’s the only other young person who works in the kitchen. She started here as a dishwasher when she was sixteen and worked her way up over the last five years. She is definitely one of my favorite people at Michelangelo's.

“Right? It’s like creepy molestation versus outright s****l harassment. I don’t know—all I know is how violated I feel right now.”

“What did you do when it happened?”

“I told him to keep his hands off my ass.”

“And let me guess, he laughed like you said something cute.”

“Yep. Awesome.”

“You should tell Henry.”

“Right. Because that will end well. Henry’s the one who doesn’t seem to think women can do this job. Arnie hired me. I feel like his solution would be to tell me to quit.”

I plate a steak and spoon some peppercorn demi-glace over the top.

“Dude, it’s illegal. Michelangelo's could have a lawsuit on its hands if we report it and they don’t do anything.”

“Yeah…” And my bosses would also know neither of us have the money to sue. “Maybe I’ll just keep a fork in my pocket and next time he comes near me, I’ll shove it in his thigh.”

Lilah smothers a laugh. “That’ll teach him.”

Arnie bustles by and she picks up a fork and looks over at him meaningfully.

I duck my head to hide my laugh.

Sadly, I don’t get a chance to make use of a fork the rest of the night. By the time we finish cleaning and putting everything away, my feet are killing me and I’m about ready to drop dead, but I’m happy.

I love this job, even with all the bullshit. I like joking with Lilah; I like the excitement of putting plate after plate out with the pressure of perfection. I like working with expensive, gourmet ingredients, making the works of art that Henry dreamed up. I’m always on an adrenaline rush that keeps me going long after closing.

I almost wish the shooting had put Caffè Milano out of business so this was my only job. Maybe it’s snobby of me, but I feel like creating fine cuisine in a top-rated restaurant is where I really belong.

But that’s selfish. My grandparents raised me and I owe them everything. Caffè Milano is their entire world and they’re getting old. My aunt and I are the ones who keep the place going. Even with Aunt Lori working there full-time, I have to fill in more and more the older my grandparents get. Which means until they die, or until my little cousin Mia is old enough to help—providing she can with her hip situation, it has to be my entire world, too.