Chapter 35
RHETT
Being back in New York felt surreal after weeks on the road. I was happy to be back, but I also missed the thrill of traveling. It felt good to sleep in my own bed but not as good as it had been sleeping with Clementine tucked up against me.
I met Simone at our usual coffee shop on the Upper West Side, a little place called Grind that served excellent espresso and minded their own business. After weeks of hotel lobbies and airport cafes, the familiar chairs and jazz music felt like coming home.
“You look rested,” Simone said, sliding into the seat across from me. She had that look, the one that meant she had a mental checklist and we were going to work through every item whether I wanted to or not.
She pulled out her tablet, already scrolling through what I assumed was a comprehensive list of everything that had gone wrong in my absence.
My stomach tightened. “How bad?”
“Nothing major,” she said quickly.
I felt some of the tension leave my shoulders. I trusted my staff. I had personally trained all of them. The goal was to get them good enough to run the restaurant without me babysitting every minute. If I ever hoped to expand, I was going to need several good managers.
“Adam handled most of the kitchen issues beautifully. That new sous chef you hired before we left? He’s working out well. Picked up the slack without any drama.”
“Good. What else?”
“The wine distributor tried to shortchange us on the Bordeaux order. Adam caught it, made some calls, got it sorted. They won’t try that again.” She scrolled down her list. “Oh, and the health inspector showed up unannounced last Tuesday.”
I sat up straighter. “And?”
“Perfect score. Adam said the guy couldn’t find anything to complain about, which apparently frustrated him.” Simone’s smile was smug. “Your kitchen runs like clockwork even when you’re not there. You should be proud.”
I was, actually. Building a team that could function without constant oversight had been one of my biggest goals when I opened the restaurant. Too many chefs made themselves indispensable, which meant they could never step away without everything falling apart.
“Reservations are booked solid through January,” she continued. “The publicity from the tour helped. We’ve had calls from three different food magazines wanting to do features, and that Netflix documentary crew reached out again.”
“Still no on the documentary.”
“I figured, but I had to mention it.”
We finished our coffee and walked the six blocks to the event space. The November air had that bite to it that promised snow. I pulled my coat tighter as we navigated the crowded sidewalks.
“You nervous?” Simone asked, glancing at me sideways.
“Should I be?”
“Well, considering the last time you were in public, your relatives showed up like they were auditioning for The Sopranos…”
I shot her a look. “They’re not going to show up. They got their chaos fix in Chicago.”
“Famous last words.”
We walked into the event space where we would be hosting tomorrow night’s final fundraiser before the Thanksgiving grand opening. Everything was riding on this. The future of the soup kitchen, Desman’s reputation, and my own career.
No pressure at all.
Clementine had spent the morning with her family. I was genuinely happy for her. The way her face had lit up when she talked about seeing her little brother again reminded me why I’d fallen for her in the first place. She would join us later in the evening.
“This place is gorgeous,” Simone said, running her hand along the marble bar top. The event space was all exposed brick and industrial lighting, the kind of trendy Manhattan venue that charged five grand just to walk through the door.
“It’ll do,” I said, scanning the dining room. “Conroy, did you confirm the delivery times with all our vendors?”
“Everything’s locked and loaded, Chef,” he replied.
About half the tables were set. We were going to be eating lunch. Kind of get a feel for service and quality.
We sat down at a table in the center of the room. The menus for the evening were already done. I picked it up, scanning the words and making sure nothing was misspelled. I couldn’t count the number of times that had happened throughout my career.
I noticed Conroy was leaning in close to Simone as they both studied the drink menu.
“Absolutely not,” I said. “No booze before service. You know the rules.”
They both looked up at me with matching pouts, like kids who’d been caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Conroy was a bad influence on her.
I knew there was plenty of time for them to sober up between now and dinner, but we couldn’t afford any bad press. If any of these servers or setup crew took pictures of alcohol on the table, it would be bad.
“But it’s our last night,” Simone whined. “We deserve a drink.”
I rolled my eyes. “You guys don’t want to drink. You’re just fucking with me.”
“We wanted to celebrate,” Conroy added.
I raised an eyebrow. “What exactly are we celebrating?”
They exchanged a look. I swore I saw little heart bubbles appeared over their heads.
It was way too sappy.
“While we’re on the subject, what the hell is going on between you two?”
“Nothing,” Simone said quickly.
“Love,” Conroy said at exactly the same time.
They shared a look that could have powered the entire kitchen. That look alone said it all. Simone’s cheeks turned bright pink even as she giggled. It was like being back in junior high.
“Shit,” I muttered. “How long has this been going on?”
I knew there was the hookup early on, but somehow I had missed the signs throughout the tour. I supposed if I looked back, the signs were there. And Conroy had been chasing her forever.
I guessed he finally got her.
“Officially? Three days.” Conroy grinned. “Unofficially? Since about day two of the tour.”
“We were trying to be professional,” Simone added. “But I just decided this wasn’t something I have to be professional about. I’m an adult. My love life is my business.”
Her statement was very clear. She was telling me to back off. I respected her enough to give her privacy.
“The real question,” Conroy said, clearly deflecting, “is what’s going on with you and Clem? Don’t think we haven’t noticed you two.”
“Or your chemistry in the kitchen,” Simone chimed in. “It’s a little uncomfortable.”
“Everyone has noticed it,” Conroy agreed. “The sexual tension was so thick we could have served it as soup.”
I felt heat creep up my neck. “It’s complicated.”
“It always is with you,” Simone said. “Come on, spill. We told you about us.”
I looked at my two closest friends, people who had stuck by me through every career high and low, and realized there was no point in lying.
“Getting to know Clem has been the highlight of this entire tour. Sure, I love the cooking, and the cause, and seeing different cities. But spending time with her? It’s next level. ”
Simone practically bounced in her seat. “I knew it! It’s about time you let yourself have a little fun.”
“Fun isn’t exactly the word I would use,” I said, thinking about our night in Chicago and the way she’d looked at me afterward.
“So what’s the problem?” Conroy asked.
Before I could answer, our server approached, a young guy with hipster glasses and an apologetic smile. “Sorry to interrupt, folks. Can I get your lunch orders started?”
We placed our orders, but I noticed the server giving me a strange look, like he was trying to place my face. After he walked away, I saw him behind the bar talking with other staff members, all of them looking at their phones.
A familiar dread settled in my stomach like a lead weight.
“Uh oh,” Simone said, clearly reading my expression. She pulled out her phone, fingers flying as she scrolled through social media. Her face fell. “It’s not good.”
“How not good?” I asked.
She placed her phone on the table between us. Conroy leaned over to read the headline out loud: “‘Michelin-Star Chef Rhett Voss gets unlikely visit from Mafia members at Chicago fundraiser dinner.’”
“That’s a mouthful,” Simone muttered with disgust.
“That’s what you said last night,” Conroy added, trying to break the tension with humor.
Simone smiled despite everything. I groaned. That was about the last thing I wanted to hear. I grabbed the phone and started reading, each word hitting me like a physical blow. I expected it to be bad, but I supposed part of me hoped they would just leave me alone.
I should have known better.
The article was brutal. It tore apart my family, called my father a “notorious crime boss,” and then went after Desman for choosing me as head chef. Why not work with someone like up-and-coming superstar Chef Hwan? His reputation is squeaky clean, and his talent speaks for itself.
Hwan. Of course they’d bring up fucking Hwan.
How had no one ever come forward about his gross behavior? The guy was a dick. He was a womanizer. The guy was a predator. I had no doubt in my mind there were plenty of women that had been harassed by him.
But oh yeah, I was the problem.
I continued to read the article.
Not only is Rhett dangerously tied to organized crime in NYC, but he’s also known for his volatile temper. Videos of him working in professional kitchens show a pattern of aggressive behavior. Maybe he’s not so different from his criminal family members—maybe the violence is simply in his DNA.
I shoved the phone away from me like it was on fire.
Simone was chewing the inside of her cheek, a nervous habit that never boded well for me. “Not good.”
“Not good at all,” Conroy said, still reading over her shoulder. “Did you read the last paragraph?”
“I don’t need to read any more of that trash,” I growled.
“I think you should,” Conroy said quietly, pushing the phone back toward me.
Against my better judgment, I looked down at the screen again. The final paragraph made my blood run cold, and I felt my temper spike in a way that proved their point about my DNA.
“Fuck,” I whispered, gripping the edge of the table.