Chapter 51 Sophie - 1 Month Later
The new Arsenal represents a new life: fresh paint on the walls, unsealed hardwood floors, sawdust still in the air despite three rounds of professional cleaning.
It’s completely different than the day I first walked in.
The day I christened every surface with Vin.
Thankfully, all those surfaces have been replaced.
Sunlight streams through floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook a tree-lined street in a much nicer neighborhood than I’m used to. The building is all exposed brick walls, marble countertops, and copper fixtures that cost more than my first car.
Everything Vin chose, everything he paid for.
I stand in the center of my new kitchen and try to feel something around the hollow ache threatening to consume me.
The range is a 12-burner Italian beauty with dual ovens and a salamander broiler.
Restaurant-grade refrigeration units line the back wall, their stainless steel surfaces gleaming.
The prep stations are positioned perfectly for workflow, each one outfitted with cutting boards, knife blocks, and every tool a chef could dream of.
He remembered. Every conversation we had about my dream kitchen, every offhand comment I made while cooking for him about what I wish I had, what I needed: he remembered all of it.
Somehow that makes everything worse.
Every day for a month, I’ve been here cooking, testing recipes, perfecting techniques, losing myself as I create a new familiar flow in this kitchen.
Anything to keep me out of the dining room. There, the amount of money that Vin spent is undeniable and very hard for me to accept.
Sixty seats arranged in a way that encourages conversation around tables made from reclaimed wood with copper accents.
The chairs are upholstered in deep emerald velvet, my favorite color, a fact I only mentioned once.
Edison bulbs hang from iron fixtures and cast a warm, golden light.
A bar along one wall has shelving for wine that reaches all the way to the 25-foot ceilings.
It’s perfect. Every single detail is exactly what I would have chosen if I’d had unlimited money.
Which is precisely the problem. I don’t have unlimited money, and I can’t accept this.
I can’t build my dream on guilt money from a man who offered to keep fucking me as long as I understood I’d never be good enough to stand beside him.
But it’s amazingly perfect, and I can’t afford to replace it, either.
To be honest, I can’t afford to pay for any of this, but that didn’t stop me from reaching out to every vendor and asking them to talk payment plans.
“Mr. Demonio has already handled everything, Miss Bellamorte. For the next five years, our instructions are to direct all service questions to you, but billing goes through him.”
Five years. He’s locked me into accepting his charity for five years.
I’m stirring Carnaroli rice, vegetable stock, and butter from a small farm upstate for risotto when I hear heels clicking across the hardwood floor of the dining room.
“Sophie?”
Siena’s voice echoes in the empty space.
I call from the kitchen, “In here.”
She appears in the kitchen doorway, one hand resting on her very pregnant belly, her dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail.
“It’s beautiful,” she says, her eyes sweeping over the kitchen. “Sophie, this place is incredible.”
“It’s his,” I say without looking up. “All of it. I didn’t choose any of this.”
“But he chose it because he knows what you like.” Siena moves closer, watching me stir. “He chose exactly what you would have chosen. That has to mean something.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Are you suddenly on his side?”
She barks out a laugh. “Fuck no. All I’m saying is that this is, at the very least, an appropriate replacement for your restaurant that he is responsible for ruining. I’m not even touching all the other bullshit he did. That is unforgivable.”
The risotto is going to burn if I don’t keep moving, but I can’t seem to make my arm work. “How is he?”
Siena sighs. “We’re over this, right, Sophie? I thought you were focused on the restaurant.”
Over it? I wish I knew how.
“I have been working on the menus, the food. I hosted a couple of parties here. Mr. Cavallari from the old neighborhood has been coming as often as he can. But….”
“But you’re not over it,” Siena says softly. She sighs and glances away like she’s making a decision then turns back to me. “If it makes you feel better, Vin is a fucking mess. Matti says they’ve had Aurelio in custody for over a month but Vin won’t just end him, end the war, and move on.”
I stare at her, startled. “What? Why? I thought that was the whole point. This is what they’ve been working toward.”
“Right,” she nods. “Matti and Tommy don’t get it. Vin’s just been drinking and being a dick to everyone. He won’t answer the phone half the time. They’re just waiting for him to decide what to do next.”
I force myself to resume stirring, watching the rice absorb the stock, each grain swelling with liquid and flavor. Transformation through patience and heat. If only I could fix my life as easily.
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask.
“Because you’re not opening this restaurant, and I can’t figure out why.
” Siena gestures around the beautiful, empty kitchen.
“You’ve been here every day for a month, cooking for no one, hiding out.
The baby’s coming in two weeks, Sophie. I want to be here for your opening night, but there’s not going to be an opening night if you don’t accept this apology of his and move forward. ”
“His apology?” I laugh without humor. “This isn’t an apology. This is pity. ‘Here, princess, take all the things you could have never gotten without me since you’re not good enough to actually be with me.’”
“Stop.” Siena’s command is sharp. She crosses the kitchen and grips my shoulders, forcing me to meet her eyes. “Listen to me. Vin is an asshole. What he did at my party was unforgivable. The way he’s handling this whole thing is cowardly and cruel.”
“Then why—”
“But this is the only language he knows for ‘I’m sorry.’” She gestures around the kitchen. “This is him trying to say whatever the fuck it is he can’t fucking say because he’s a God damn asshole with zero emotional intelligence.”
“I loved him,” I whisper. “I still love him. How pathetic is that?”
“It’s not pathetic.” Siena’s voice softens. “But you can’t let him take your dream away too, Sophie. You had a restaurant when you met him. You have a restaurant now that he’s gone. Stay focused on what matters.”
I turn off the burner, abandoning the risotto. “I don’t have any money, Siena. Everything he paid for, I can’t afford it. And I won’t take his charity.”
“This is not charity. It’s the bare fucking minimum.
” She releases my shoulders and leans against the counter, one hand rubbing her belly absently.
“Why not think of it as a loan? An investment in your future success. When this place is making money, which we both know it will, you pay him back every cent with interest if it makes you feel better.”
“The contracts run for five years—”
“When this place is making money hand over fist, that will feel like pocket change.” Siena shrugs. “You’re 34 years old, Sophie. You have time. But you don’t have another month to waste hiding here, perfecting risotto that no one will ever eat.”
She’s right. I hate that she’s right, but she is.
“I don’t know where to start.” I trail off, trying not to sound as lost as I feel.
“Opening night,” Siena says. “Let’s set a date and work backwards from there. What do you need?”
I look around the kitchen at the gleaming equipment, the perfectly positioned stations, the wall of windows letting in afternoon light.
What do I need?
“Six weeks,” I hear myself say. “I need six weeks.”
Siena’s smile is proud. “Then let’s get to work.”