Chapter 22
LORENZO
My return to Avanti is loud and boisterous for all of five seconds.
“Chef! You’re back!”
“Good to see ya, man!”
“Thank God you’re here to do the fettuccine tonight. Sergio’s been all up my ass about it being too spicy because I paired it with blackened salmon one night. Hasn’t shut up about how no one does it like you.”
Roberta’s lament makes me laugh, but it’s enough that everyone has returned to their stations and their work. It’s as if I was never gone.
It was only a week, but somehow, it seems like the longest and most important week of my life. How is life the same for everyone else when mine feels so different?
“Thanks, Chef. I’ll get on making the pasta and the sauce for tonight,” I tell Roberta as I wash my hands and slip on my jacket and apron.
“Heard. Might as well go ahead and make Sergio the first plate so he can ooh and ahh over it,” she advises sarcastically.
She’s not bitter about my compliments, but I’m sure Sergio wasn’t exactly kind in his comparison, and chefs tend to be more than a bit prickly about coming up short when we’ve put our heart and soul into our food.
I get to work, the routine of prep mindless and automatic.
Take out a ball of dough, knead and roll it, and then start the process of feeding it through the pasta machine while I ready the next batch.
Next, I let a mixture of butter, heavy cream, garlic, parmesan, pepper, and a shake of Aunt Sofia’s special spices bubble on the stove.
The first plate complete, I call out to the line, “Chef, off line.” Eyes pop up, and Roberta nods as I hold the plate up. “For Sergio.”
“Good. Don’t let him hold you hostage. Service is already starting.” She pulls an order from the machine and yells out to the crew. “Table eleven, app vegetable misto, entrée one boar Bolognese, entrée two wagyu bavette with beet and apple puree.”
Milo and Alesandro are already in motion, and I watch for a moment as they rally together to begin tonight’s service. They’re a good team. I know I bring a lot to the table, but they’ll be okay without me.
The thought hits me harder than I expected. It’s what I do . . . arrive, work, and leave when the mood suits me. It’s what I’ve done time and time again, so why does this time feel different? Like there’s a black void in the pit of my stomach when I think of not being here?
Is it Roberta, Milo, and Alesandro I’ll miss? Perhaps.
Or maybe it’s that I already miss the island, with Esmar and his crew.
I sigh, knowing the truth. It’s none of those people I miss, though they are good friends. It’s Abigail. She might be right here in the city, but she’s never been this far away.
I swallow down the sour pain and head to Sergio’s office where I knock once and then open the door.
I should’ve waited for him to call out ‘come in’ or something, because the sight that greets me is atrociously obscene. I’ll need a gallon-sized bottle of eye bleach to even have a hope of erasing it from my memory.
Valentina is bent over Sergio’s desk, looking bored as she chants, “Oh, yeah, baby. So good,” in a dull voice. I swear she’s checking her manicure.
Sergio is behind her, grunting and railing into Valentina with everything he’s got judging by the red tint of his cheeks and the sweat at his brow.
“Sorry!” I exclaim, moving to shut the door.
“Lorenzo! My boy!” Sergio calls out. Though my eyes are on the floor, I can hear him pull out of his wife and zip up. “Come in, come in. Is that alfredo for me?”
“Uh, yeah,” I say hesitatingly. Risking a glance up, I see that Valentina hasn’t moved but the boredom in her eyes has been replaced by sharp hunger.
She wants me to see her this way, is getting off on being half-naked and folded over the nearest piece of furniture.
Not for her husband but for me in some sordid pretend fantasy in her mind.
Sergio has come around his desk, his shirt messily untucked in the front and his belt undone, but at least I can’t see his dick. He extends his hand to shake mine. My lip curls. “No offense, Sergio, but I know where your hands have been.”
Valentina lets out a squeak of anger as she stands upright. “What’s that supposed to mean?" Her skirt won’t fall over her hips, it’s too tight for that, but she shimmies and wiggles it down into place.
Sergio’s eyes narrow at me.
“I’m on the line,” I remind him, as if I’m going to walk directly back into the kitchen and start touching food and don’t want his sex juices—gag!
—to contaminate anything. No worries about that, though, because I’ll definitely be washing my hands and doing a look around to see if I really can get ahold of some eye bleach.
“Oh, of course!” Sergio says congenially. “So good to have you back. Roberta, she tries, but her alfredo is just not the same as yours.” He looks at the plate in my hands eagerly, his fingers twitching as he holds himself back from grabbing it out of my hands.
“Here.” I shove the plate his way. “Excuse me.”
My escape is short-lived because as Sergio sits down to chow on his special plate of fettuccine, Valentina is coming down the hall in quick strides. Click-click-click, her heels sound out on the floor.
“Lorenzo!” she calls out.
I’m almost free and clear, just two more steps and I’ll be through the door into the kitchen, but she catches me. Her nails dig into my arm to stop me in place. Gritting my teeth, I hiss, “What?”
She actually looks wounded. “I . . . I missed you.”
I blink. “You don’t even know me.”
Ignoring my assertion, she pouts, “Didn’t you miss me too, baby?” She reaches up to cup my face and I jerk out of her range.
“Don’t touch me,” I growl. “And I’m not your ‘baby’. As I’ve told you before, Valentina . . . not just no, but hell no. Go to your husband.”
Her lips purse haughtily, a gleam in her eye.
“Did you like seeing me like that? Bent over, getting fucked from behind?” She takes a step closer, and though I want to run from her, I refuse to give up ground to a woman like her.
Lowering her voice, she confides, “I only let him fuck me from behind so I can pretend it’s you, Lorenzo.
Always you in my mind, but I know the real thing would be so much better. We could be so good together.”
“Never gonna happen,” I snarl, shaking my head with my eyes fixed on hers, imploring her to hear me for once.
She purrs, “Come on, baby. Just once . . . for me? Or I could tell my husband that you’ve been pursuing me.
” Her hand reaches for my cock, and I gently grab her wrist to stop her, not wanting her touch.
“Ouch, you’re hurting me,” she exclaims softly, all fearful drama with tears threatening at the corners of her eyes.
“I’m not hurting you. Don’t touch me.”
Her face morphs again as she muses, “But who will they believe? The dutiful wife of a loving dimwit of a husband, or the tattooed bad boy who blows in and out of town on his motorcycle, leaving women in his wake after taking what he wants from them?”
“I don’t . . .”
I freeze. Is that what I do? Not with Valentina, never with a barracuda like her, but I have had relationships in the various towns I’ve lived in.
Some casual, some more serious, but never enough to warrant my staying beyond the short time I found something interesting there.
Once my cravings for food adventures were satisfied, I was happy to move on . . . from the food and the women.
Until now.
I might have moved on from the food in Aruba, though I admit I wasn’t ready to come home and am still considering Esmar’s offer because there is much to learn there.
But I haven’t moved on from Abigail. She keeps me guessing and surprises me with her passion for life, and I find that thrilling.
But is it only a matter of time before that too becomes boring and I’ll want to move on?
Something in my gut says no.
But Abigail’s moved on from me, wanting only an island ‘honeymoon’ to satisfy some schoolyard competitiveness.
Even if what we had went beyond that, she is not a woman to leave her mind unspoken, and yet, she said nothing about continuing once we came home.
The only logical conclusion is that . . . she doesn’t want to.
While I have an existential crisis, something even worse has happened.
“Valentina! Lorenzo!”
Sergio’s voice is hot with barely restrained fury and loud enough that I know everyone on the other side of the kitchen door heard him because the din of the hustle and bustle of work stops abruptly.
I clench my jaw, not willing to apologize when I have done nothing wrong.
Valentina is of no such ethical dilemma. “Oh, Sergio, thank God! He was all over me, talking about how much he missed me. He . . .” She breaks down into gushing, sobbing tears, and I watch incredulously as she burrows against her husband’s round belly, laying her head on his shoulder.
What the fuck is she talking about?
From her vantage point, she sniffles and throws me a look that Sergio can’t see. ‘Gotcha’ that look says.
“Lorenzo! Go to my office. Valentina, go home. We’ll discuss this later.” Sergio’s orders are barked and authoritative, something I rarely hear from him.
I stomp down the hall, past Sergio and Valentina, to return to the office. I see the plate of half-eaten fettuccine sitting on the desk amid the mess of papers with Valentina and Sergio’s sex juices and sweat on them.
I can’t do this.
I don’t have to do this.
I can go anywhere—like Aruba. Cook anything—like island fare. I wonder if the papayas are ripe today and what stories Gilberto is telling the crew to make them laugh.
Sergio comes in, shoulders back and chin lifted. He plops down into his chair, which makes a creaking noise.
“Sergio—” I start, my mind made up.
He jerks his chin toward the chair, silently telling me to sit down. I lower myself into the chair, thighs spread wide and my hands clasped between my knees.
“That was not what it looked like,” I try again.
“How long?” he demands. “How long has my wife been coming on to you like that?” His voice has gone softer, the hurt woven through the roughness.
For all of Sergio’s faults, I do believe he truly loves his wife. Unfortunately, she’s demon spawn in stilettos.
“You know?” I hedge.
He sighs heavily. “I was in the hallway and overheard some of what she said.”
I guess her teary blame game wasn’t so successful after all. I can’t find any joy in that, though, when Sergio looks like someone just stole his happiness.
It wasn’t me, though. That was all Valentina.
“Look, man to man . . . she started flirting with me when I first started. At first, it seemed friendly, welcoming. But she’s been more and more aggressive.
I’ve told her no dozens of times, told her to go to you more than that.
I’m an asshole, but I’ve got no interest in your wife. In anyone’s wife. I’m not that guy.”
It’s a harsh way of putting it, but sometimes, the deepest cut is needed to get all the truth out.
Sergio laughs, though it’s hollow sounding.
“I actually believe that. When I mentioned you were coming back for dinner service today, she was excited . . .” His voice drifts off, and I catch his meaning about what prompted their office activities earlier.
He’s quiet for a long moment, so I fill the dead space.
“I’ll get my knives and go,” I offer, knowing where this is headed. Sergio might believe me, might believe that his wife is the aggressor in all of this, but he can’t have me in his kitchen.
That’s okay. My mind’s already made up.
At least about working here. I’m not sure about Aruba, but there are a world’s worth of kitchens to explore, and I don’t have to stay somewhere where the shine has worn off.
“I cannot allow you to quit, Chef. I need to fire you, with severance, of course,” Sergio negotiates. He pulls a checkbook from his desk and writes me a check.
I can understand his need to fire me as a show of dominance. He’ll need to continue as the alpha in his restaurant, and he’s well aware that everyone in the kitchen and probably the front of the house too heard our hallway encounter and are gossiping like old women out there as we speak.
“Understood.” I dip my chin in agreement and we both stand.
He hands me the check, and I fold it, placing it in my chest pocket without looking at it.
The amount doesn’t matter, though I’ll need it to get by for the next few weeks while I figure out what the hell I’m going to do now.
The point is that Sergio and I are good, two men in a bad situation because of one woman.
He holds out a hand and I look at it carefully. “Still no, man. I know you haven’t washed your hands.”
He shrugs with a small hint of a sad smile. “I will miss your fettuccine, Lorenzo. If you need a recommendation anywhere, feel free to use my name. I will gladly tell anyone about your culinary skills.”
An exceedingly kind gesture, all things considered, but I don’t think I’ll be risking that recommendation. What if a potential employer got Valentina on the line? She’d paint a most unflattering picture of me, I’m sure.
“There are several more servings of fettuccine in the kitchen, already prepped for service. Grab one of those before they’re gone.”
With that, I walk through the kitchen of Avanti for the last time. I shake hands with Roberta and wave at the rest of the guys on the line. They offer a small applause and call out, “Bye, Chef!” like they have so many nights before.
Tonight, when I climb on my motorcycle and fly down the road, I have no destination in mind. I simply feel free, the wind rushing against my body as I drive too fast, my knives in my pack and armed with the knowledge that I could go anywhere right now.
Anywhere I want—to start fresh, to learn something new, to meet new people.
So why do I end up driving by SweetPea Boutique and feeling let down at the dark interior?