The Bratva’s Kidnapped Bride

“Wow, you’re actually learning something at that place,” I snipped sarcastically.

She huffed. “I want the job so you don’t stress so much about it. So you can take a day off for once in, what, the last five years? You should actually live a little while you’re still sort of young.”

That was a blow I wasn’t expecting. I spent so much time worrying about my kid sister having a good life that it never occurred to me that she was worrying about me, too. It gave me a twinge in my chest, and I looked back at the restaurant in my rear-view mirror. I had been hoping it could stay there.

“I’m off right now,” I countered. Technically true.

“Yeah, but you went to the market this morning, made your sandwiches, and then spent three hours delivering them, right?”

“They’re not just sandwiches,” was all I could say. “But yeah, I did. So what? I love that, but it’s not a job for me. And we’re not tight on money at all right now,” I lied through my teeth. “So stick to our agreement and save getting a job for when your load is lighter in the summer, okay? Maybe another internship will come up soon. School is the most important thing, remember?”

Thankfully, she agreed, changing the subject to something that really put a pin in my already deflated mood. There was an upcoming trip to Washington, DC that her political science class was planning. She was dying to go and had already sent me the info. The price nearly made my knees buckle, but I hadn’t told her no yet. It was cowardly and probably cruel to keep her hopes up, but I still had hopes of my own that this would all turn around. All it would take was one good booking to keep things somewhat on track.

After we hung up, I stared at my phone, willing a call or an email to come through with someone wanting to book a party.

I knew it was well beyond one party at that point, though. I’d need a fully packed schedule for the next three months to justify not going back into the restaurant and facing the tyrant chef of my nightmares.

I had actually made a pretty good living as a sous chef. If I pulled that regular paycheck again, I could swing the DC trip for Jenna if I cut back on something else. I had no idea what that would be since my life was already as bare-bones as I could make it to survive.

Recharged, I headed back toward the restaurant, my shoulders squared, and my head held high. Not even Chef Danello’s smirking chuckle when he saw me poke my head around the kitchen door made me falter. He wordlessly motioned for me to follow him to his office, then silently waited for me to make my plea.

“I hear the kitchen’s not running so smoothly,” I said, quaking inside but maintaining eye contact. It was a miracle I didn’t turn to stone the way he glared at me.

“The kitchen ran fine before you, and continues to run fine,” he said. “I’m certain your last paycheck was sent. I have a packed house tonight and need to chase down a delivery of scallops, so get to it. Why are you here?”

I tried not to show my triumph. Chasing down missing or delayed deliveries was one of my specialties, right up there with a wicked white sauce. He could bluster all he wanted, but he needed me as much as I needed him.

Okay, I needed him a lot more, but I still didn’t let it show.

“I’m willing to step in as early as this shift and help out,” I said, pretending I didn’t have years of animosity built up against him, that this wasn’t twisting my stomach into knots. All I had to do was imagine Jenna touring the Capitol building and the Lincoln Memorial to keep my composure.

His eyes narrowed in a way that meant something awful was coming. If we’d been in the kitchen, I would have been looking around for whatever utensil or pan was within his reach and getting ready to duck. As it was, his hand was way too close to a stapler for comfort.

Instead of hurling something at me and shouting for me to get the hell out of his restaurant, he only smiled and nodded.

“I do actually need another line cook. You know we can’t keep them for long.”

I did know. It was a grueling job, and only one pay grade above the dishwashers. “For tonight?” I squeaked, losing my false bravado.

“You’re only looking to work one night? Or do you want a permanent job back?”

“I want my job back,” I said, on the verge of tears. He couldn’t mean to…

“Your job? What job is that?” he asked, waiting. I knew better than to try to answer, and he continued. “Because I seem to remember you walking out on your job in the middle of a dinner shift, which means, in my mind, anyway, that you don’t have a job here at all anymore.”

“I apologize for that.” It barely came out; my throat was so clogged up.

“I have an opening for a line cook. Do you want it or not? If you prove to have any talent or abilities, you can always work your way up.”

He was taunting me now, because that was exactly what I had done already, and it took years. I could storm out and spend the next couple of weeks fruitlessly looking for another sous chef position in another place, but he was vindictive enough to give me a bad reference, making it seem like I was unreliable because I walked out on one shift. He’d never mention what drove me to it, though.

He was demoting me out of spite, even though he knew I did a great job at my old position. And I was really desperate enough to accept.

I put on the apron and kept my head down, cutting countless vegetables and trying to keep my spirit from completely deflating. But I was little more than an empty husk by the time the restaurant closed up for the night. I didn’t even have Jenna’s happiness about the trip to cling to because there was no way I could afford it now, not on my new, crappy wage. My only hope was to shine as best I could and hope Chef Danello didn’t want to punish me for too long.

“Hey, you aren’t going home, are you?” Adrien called as I was leaving.

He was one of the servers and a longtime friend who had helped with my one brilliant Hollywood party. His girlfriend Layla encouraged me to meet them at a club they and some other front staff were attending that night.