Chapter 31
RHETT
What the actual fuck were they doing here?
The question ricocheted through my skull as I watched my past collide with my present in the most spectacular, humiliating way possible.
They stood in the cathedral doorway like they owned the place, their expensive suits and gold jewelry glinting in the candlelight, completely oblivious to the chaos they’d just unleashed.
Could they be any more obnoxious? This was a house of God after all.
“Clem, you should leave,” I said, not taking my eyes off the approaching storm. “Go back to the hotel. Now. I’ll stop by later. We’ll talk.”
But it was too late. They were headed straight for us.
“Rhett!” my cousin Tony’s voice boomed across the sanctuary, carrying enough volume to wake saints. “Look at this fancy place! Our little chef boy’s really moving up in the world!”
Before I could react, before I could put up any kind of defense, they descended on me like a pack of wolves. Wolves that wore nice suits.
Clem seemed to be frozen to her seat. She hadn’t made her escape and now it was too late. I got to my feet in an attempt to shield her. It was futile, but I had to try.
Tony reached me first, his massive arm snaking around my neck in what he probably thought was an affectionate headlock. “There’s our celebrity!” he announced to the entire room, delivering a solid punch to my ribs that made me grunt and stumble.
“Get off me,” I hissed, but Uncle Sal was already reaching over to ruffle my hair like I was still eight years old and tagging along behind them during family gatherings.
“Look at this kid!” Sal laughed, his meaty hand messing up the careful styling I’d managed before dinner. “All grown up and fancy now, but still our little Rhett!”
My cousin Marco joined the fray, slapping my back hard enough to make me stagger forward. “We saw you on that show last month. Ma cried, she was so proud. Kept rewinding the part where you told that jerk to kiss your ass.” He quickly made the sign of the cross. “Sorry, Padre.”
I just hoped if there was any smiting, I wouldn’t be the one standing next to him.
Camera flashes started going off like strobe lights.
I could hear the whispers starting, see phones being discreetly lifted to capture this train wreck in real time.
Food critics, society photographers, parish donors—all of them watching my carefully constructed professional image get demolished by my family’s idea of showing support.
They were enthusiastic to say the least. They had zero qualms about making a scene.
They moved through life like bulls in china shops.
They didn’t care who looked. They were very confident in who they were, and if people didn’t like them, which most didn’t, they ignored it.
There was a level of confidence that went with being that comfortable in your own skin.
I managed to shake them off using my own size and strength. My chef’s coat was now wrinkled and my hair was standing at odd angles. “What the hell are you doing here?” I hissed, keeping my voice low but making sure they could hear the fury beneath it.
“Supporting family!” my cousin Gabriel declared, spreading his arms wide like he was addressing a crowd. “Can’t a bunch of guys come eat their little cousin’s fancy food?”
These were my father’s people. It was the family tree in all its complicated, dangerous glory.
Cousins who had grown up running numbers for bookies and uncles who married into families with connections that went back to the old country.
I had a lot of in-laws whose legitimate businesses were just fronts for less legitimate enterprises.
They were all part of the network that had centered around my father Luke before his arrest, and they wore their association with organized crime like a badge of honor.
But despite their reputation, despite the fear they inspired in people who knew what they were capable of, they’d always been more rambunctious than truly dangerous around family.
These were the men who taught me to play poker and snuck me beer at family barbecues when I was fifteen.
These were the people who celebrated every small victory in my life like it was their own personal triumph.
They were also the men whose presence at this elegant cathedral dinner was about to destroy everything I had worked to build.
“You should have stayed home,” I said through gritted teeth, acutely aware of the growing crowd of onlookers. “This isn’t the kind of support I need. Or the attention you want.”
“Aw, come on, Rhett,” Tony said, his voice carrying that wounded tone he’d perfected as a kid. “We drove all the way up here from the neighborhood. Ma made me promise to take pictures of you in your fancy chef hat.”
“I don’t wear a hat,” I snapped.
“Whatever. The point is, we’re here, we’re hungry, and we want to see what all the fuss is about.” Marco grinned and patted his substantial stomach. “I’ve been eating nothing but Chinese takeout for a week. I need some real food.”
We both knew that was bullshit. One of the fronts was an Italian restaurant. What good Italian mafia family didn’t have a restaurant on the books? It was where they all spent a lot of time. My mom wasn’t the only cook in the family.
“Listen,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm and reasonable, “why don’t I cook for you guys next week? I’ll make reservations at the restaurant. We’ll do the whole family dinner thing properly.”
“Next week?” Tony looked genuinely offended. “What, we’re not good enough for your fancy cathedral?”
“It’s not that—”
“Because I gotta tell you, Rhett, I’m a little hurt here.” He pressed his hand to his chest like I had wounded him. “We come all this way, we get dressed up? Look at Sal, he’s wearing a tie! When’s the last time you saw Uncle Sal in a tie?”
I glanced at Sal, who was indeed wearing what appeared to be a clip-on tie with tiny golf clubs on it. “It’s very nice, Uncle Sal.”
“Damn right it’s nice,” Sal beamed. “Your Aunt Marie picked it out special for tonight. Said I had to look ‘presentable’ for your fancy dinner.”
“And look,” Marco chimed in, gesturing to his own suit. “I even got my jacket dry cleaned. You know what that cost these days? And they call me a thief.”
“Or you could have just taken it to the family dry cleaners,” I muttered.
“But we’re not in New York. We’re here in Chicago.”
Uncle Sal was the only one who had actually been to Italy, but Marco was the one who talked with a heavy Italian accent. He enjoyed leaning into the whole mobster persona even if he didn’t actually whack people or make anyone sleep with the fishes.
I looked around desperately, taking in the horrified expressions of the dinner guests, the concerned face of Father McKenna.
Clementine was now standing frozen beside our table with her mouth slightly open.
She was staring at the interaction like she couldn’t quite process what she was seeing—the way my intimidating, well-dressed relatives had reduced me to a squirming kid in about thirty seconds flat.
I had a good idea about what she was thinking.
She was probably trying to figure out how to get away from me and my crazy family.
I didn’t blame her. I did tell her to get away, but she didn’t move fast enough. I looked at her with an apology in my eyes. She was trapped now. There would be no escape.
Simone appeared like an angel of mercy. She had that take-charge look on her face. The woman could stop a war with that expression. She was not playing around.
“Gentlemen!” she called out in her most professional voice, approaching our group with the kind of confident smile that could defuse international incidents. “How wonderful that Chef Voss’s family could join us tonight. I’m sure we can arrange seating for everyone.”
She caught my eye and mouthed “trust me” before turning to Conroy, who was hovering nearby looking like he would rather be anywhere else on earth. He knew my family. Rather he knew of them.
“Conroy, could you work with the kitchen staff to prepare plates for our additional guests?” Her tone was all business. “I think everyone would love to share in Chef Voss’s exceptional cuisine tonight.”
Smart woman. She’d recognized that the only way to contain this disaster was to lean into it, to make it look intentional rather than like a hostile takeover by organized crime.
Twenty minutes later, I found myself sitting at an expanded table with my five relatives, Clementine, and what felt like half the original dinner party’s attention focused on us.
Plates of food were appearing with remarkable efficiency.
Conroy was kicking ass in the kitchen. Turned out he did get to cook tonight.
My family dug into the meal with the kind of enthusiasm they brought to everything—loud, appreciative, and completely lacking in the refined manners expected at an event like this.
“Damn, Rhett,” Uncle Sal said around a mouthful of the duck breast, not bothering to lower his voice. “This is incredible. Did you put steak sauce on this?”
“It’s the pomegranate reduction,” I said automatically, then immediately regretted engaging. The more I talked, the longer this would go on.
“Pomegranate!” Tony slapped the table hard enough to make the wine glasses jump. “Who’d have thought? Ma’s gonna want the recipe. She’s been trying to fancy up her Sunday dinners.”
“You can’t just give away trade secrets,” Marco added with the authority of someone who had never cooked anything more complicated than scrambled eggs. “This is professional-level stuff right here.”
They continued their loud appreciation through every course, making comments that ranged from genuinely insightful to completely absurd.
But what made it worse—or maybe better, I couldn’t tell anymore—was how obviously proud they were.
They kept glancing around the room like they wanted to make sure everyone understood that this talented chef was theirs, that they had a claim to whatever success I’d achieved.
It was embarrassing and heartwarming and infuriating all at once.
Then they turned their attention to Clementine.
“So,” Gabriel said, leaning back in his chair with the satisfied air of a man who had just eaten exceptionally well. “Who’s the pretty girl, Rhett? You been holding out on us?”
I felt my stomach drop. “We work together.”
“Yeah? Just work, huh?” Tony’s grin was pure mischief. “That’s what we’re calling it now?”
“It’s not—” I started, but Uncle Sal was already waving me off.
“Relax, kid. We’re just giving you grief.” He turned to Clementine with a friendly smile. It wasn’t lecherous. More like how you would look at a child or family member. “I’m Sal, sweetheart. This moody bastard’s uncle. And you are?”
“Clementine,” she said. I was impressed by how steady her voice sounded. She wasn’t freaking out. Most people would be scared to be sitting at a table with a bunch of loud mafia guys. “Clementine Hartley.”
“Hartley?” Marco’s eyebrows shot up. “As in Desman Hartley? The restaurant guy?”
“He’s my father,” Clementine admitted. I watched my relatives’ expressions shift as they processed this information.
“No shit,” Tony said with obvious delight. “So you’re like culinary royalty or something. What are you doing hanging around with our little cousin here? He’s kind of a twat, isn’t he?”
“Tony,” I warned, but he was already laughing. “You’re in a church.”
He ignored me. They all did. Their focus was on Clementine. She was officially in the hot seat. My family didn’t do the interrogations like the previous generations, but they knew a little something about questioning people.
Tony was not going to back down. “I’m just saying, he’s got this whole serious, brooding thing going on. Very intense. Must be exhausting to work with.”
To my surprise, Clementine laughed. Not a polite, uncomfortable laugh, but something genuine and warm.
“He has his moments,” she said diplomatically, but there was something in her tone that suggested she didn’t entirely disagree with Tony’s assessment.
“See?” Vinny pointed his fork at me like he’d just won an argument. “Even she knows you’re wound too tight. You need to learn how to have fun, Rhett. Life’s too short to be serious all the time.”
I looked around the room. I was ready to bolt and wanted the quickest exit.
Clementine was taking it all in stride, laughing with them, answering their questions, treating them like honored guests instead of the walking disasters they actually were.