37. The Winner
Chapter thirty-seven
The Winner
Lei
DJ Hendrix sauntered over to our table with a microphone in his hand.
Once the DJ arrived, he placed the microphone in front of Dima and the crowd fell silent. Many even hushed others.
Here we go.
Everyone’s gazes remained on Dima as he took the microphone and rose. And in that moment, I realized that I really should have invited him to this cookout myself. It was really nice to have him here.
Banks and Chef Foo were brought back up on stage by Salty, Sweet, and Savory. Both of the talented cooks looked relaxed, tipsy even, as they stood next to each other.
Banks even threw a casual arm around Chef Foo’s shoulders and they shared a high five.
The crowd cheered louder and I could feel the camaraderie between them. It was a competition, sure, but with no hard feelings between either of them.
Well. . .they’re definitely friends now. I will have to get used to Banks being at Lotus Blossom much more than I thought.
Moni chuckled at something Jo said and then put her attention on me. “How’s my very high baby?”
“I’m not that high.”
“Lei, you are out of your mind high.”
“No. I’m not.”
“You’ve been sitting there, watching people oddly—eyes popped open—with this silly expression on your face.”
“No. I’ve appeared very calm and relaxed like a proper Mountain Master.”
She laughed a little bit louder than I thought she should.
Maybe, I do look crazy.
I pointed at her. “I’m going to discipline you later.”
“Say what?”
“You heard me.”
“Mmmm.” She leaned my way and kissed me. “I love it when you talk dirty.”
The warmth of her mouth lingered far longer than the contact. It was these moments, so fleeting yet so full of life, that made me realize just how deeply I was in love with her.
I raised my eyebrows. “Do you think being pussy whipped ever wears off?”
“Lei, I’m not doing this with you—”
“It’s a very serious question—”
“You’re not pussy whipped—”
"But does it wear off after a few years?”
“I have no idea.”
“You do.”
“I don’t.”
“You’ve never done this to another man?”
She laughed. “I’m about to ignore you.”
I scowled at her.
Despite the teasing and the playful threats of my disciplining her, what lay between us was a profoundly growing partnership. And while I could wield power over many things in the East, Moni had all the control over me.
Does she really not know how powerful she is?
“Oh, baby.” She grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “Dima’s about to say the winner. I’m so glad I met him tonight.”
I frowned. “He’s not going to be your advisor.”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s not your decision to make. It’s mine.”
I gritted my teeth.
Dima—with his sharp intellect— positioned as Moni's advisor?
No.
The possibility sent a slow-moving chill down my spine.
If Dima had my Mountain Mistress’s ear, then he could subtly shape decisions in the East by swaying Moni's views—views that eventually would be intertwined with my own desires.
Dima was more strategic and at times wiser than my father. He had a way of seeing things, of understanding the undercurrents of power and the shifting sands of loyalty, which was invaluable but also, in some ways, threatening.
I could imagine Dima, with his calm demeanor, advising Moni on the complexities of the syndicate's politics. He might lean towards more conservative strategies, or push for alignments that I found less favorable, using his proximity to Moni to influence her—and through her—influence me.
I tensed.
“Come on, Lei.” Moni gestured in the other direction. “Let’s see who is going to win.”
Reluctantly, I followed her gaze back to the table.
Dima kept the microphone a few inches from his mouth.
His eyes were unreadable.
“First off,” Dima kept his voice smooth and casual, “I just want to say, I had a great time judging today. And honestly, I’m going to put in an official request to hire whoever wins—or loses—to be Barbara Whiskers’ personal chef.”
The crowd burst into laughter and I glanced over at Barbara Whiskers. The cat, who had been battling Dima’s pen, was now knocked out on the table, curled up in a ball and completely indifferent to the outcome of this competition.
Dima shook his head and chuckled. “In all seriousness, I’ve had some of the best food of my life today. Chef Foo, Banks—both of you knocked it out of the park.”
Several people clapped.
“Every dish was incredible and I think I speak for everyone here when I say you’ve both set a new standard for what a Grill Off should be.”
Another applause rang out from the crowd and I found myself grinning as I watched the two chefs on stage.
They both looked a little nervous now, that anticipation bubbled up.
Chef Foo straightened his jacket.
Banks now had his arm off Chef Foo’s shoulder and was shifting from one foot to the other. For once, his swagger was dialed down a bit, though he still wore a playful grin.
I leaned back in my chair, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction.
This whole cookout, this competition, had been a ridiculous idea, but somehow, it had turned into one of the best days I’d had in a long time.
It wasn’t just about the food or the competition—it was the feeling of everyone coming together, having fun, letting loose.
I made a mental note to remember that even in the chaos of my responsibilities as Mountain Master, moments like this mattered too.
Dima paused and then, with a playful glint in his eye, he looked right at me. “Before I announce the winner, I’d like to make an official request with our Mountain Master.”
What’s this?
I raised my eyebrows.
Dima gestured toward me. “I think we should make this a yearly event—a cookout and Grill Off. What do you all think?”
Oh wait.
The crowd erupted into cheers, people banging on tables, clapping, and chanting. Green and blue. It didn’t matter the color.
Everyone yelled, “Cookout! Cookout!”
I blinked, taken aback.
Yearly?
I shook my head, laughing nervously.
Moni leaned in close to whisper in my ear. “Oh God, what have we done?”
Her expression was half-amused and half-horrified.
Jo—of course—couldn’t let that moment pass. “Not every year! Every season! We could theme it. Winter cookout, spring cookout, Halloween barbecue!”
What the fuck?
Dima winked at her. “I like that! Seasonal cookouts—sounds like a plan to me. Make it happen, Mountain Master. I already have my Halloween costume ready.”
That made me chuckle a little.
I had just been wondering what Michael he would be this year.
Regardless, this cookout/grill off had spiraled into something bigger than I could have ever imagined and honestly, I wasn’t even mad about it. The energy from the crowd, the laughter, the ridiculousness of it all—this felt good.
Really good.
Finally, Dima raised his hand for silence.
The crowd quieted down.
Then, Dima returned his view back to the stage, where Banks and Chef Foo stood side by side. “Okay, folks, it’s time to announce the winner,”
I shifted my gaze to Banks and Chef Foo, watching them closely.
Both men looked like they had downed much more than a couple of beers in celebration—their cheeks were slightly flushed, their eyes wide with a blend of hope and uncertainty.
Chef Foo held his hands behind his back, standing upright, but I could see his fingers twitching with nerves.
Banks was now bouncing on his heels.
Dima glanced at the paper in his hand. “The winner of today’s Grill Off, by unanimous vote. . .”
Oh. Everyone picked the same person. Very interesting.
My heart thudded in my chest and I couldn’t help but laugh internally at how invested I was in this.
“Banks!”
The crowd exploded into cheers and applause.
Jo stood up and clapped. “That’s my cousin!!”
On the stage, Banks threw his arms up in victory and his face lit up with pure joy.
He turned to Chef Foo, who, to his credit, smiled graciously, bowing his head slightly in respect.
Banks grinned and pulled Chef Foo into a hug, and the two of them laughed together.
Clapping, I rose with Jo and the rest of the judges joined me.
Dima waved at us to be quiet.
Many of us did calm it down but remained standing.
Dima raised his voice over the noise. “While we loved Chef Foo’s dishes—let’s be clear, they were fantastic!”
Someone hooted. “Chef Foo!”
Dima bobbed his head. “Yes. That’s right, but I wanted to add that Banks’s dishes were an unapologetic, heartwarming celebration of African American culture. Big Mama would’ve been proud today.”
One of my men gave Banks the huge trophy.
Another gave Chef Foo the smaller one.
Marcelo who was also standing up and clapping, yelled, “Speech! Speech!”
Jo shook her head. “Well, I don’t know if we need that. Banks might start dancing again.”
Moni nudged her. “Leave him alone. He should enjoy this.”
I looked up at the stage.
One of his assistants—perhaps it was Salty or Savory—brought him over a microphone.
Clearly on cloud nine, Banks grabbed the microphone and leaned into it. And all of that confident swagger returned. “I just want to say—thank you to everybody, especially the Four Aces.”
My men hooted and a few drunkenly pumped their fists in the air.
I had the odd feeling that someone was watching me and gazed in that direction.
There, Dima stared at me.
I quirked my brows.
He gestured to everyone laughing—people in green, blue, yellow—and I already knew where he was going with that.
Yes. Yes. Dima. It’s fun when we all get along.
I put my view back on Banks.
He wiped sweat off his forehead. “I feel like I just won a Grammy or something.”
The crowd laughed.
“I kind of did. I know the moves helped with the judges.” And with that, Banks did a little spin.
Jo shook her head and sat back down. “Lord.”
Banks wiped his forehead again. “Seriously, though, I want to thank Big Mama, who’s up there looking down on me, probably chuckling at all this.”
Chloe held up her hands and slurred. “To Biiiggg Mama!”
That grabbed Moni’s attention. “Is she drunk?”
I cleared my throat. “Perhaps, a little tipsy.”
“What the fuck?”
“Aunt Suzi may have given her a glass of wine, but don’t worry I’ve kept my eye on them.”
“But—”
“It’ll be fine. We’re all celebrating.”
Moni let out a long breath. “Okay.”
Banks continued, “I want to thank my mama who gave me the good sense to season my food right from a young age and I want to thank Chef Foo for being a worthy competitor.” He raised a hand in Chef Foo’s direction. “I now consider you my brother in blue.”
“Thank you, Banks.” Chef Foo placed his hand over his heart and gave him a small bow.
Banks turned to us. “And we can’t forget the Mountain Mistress and Mountain Master who put this all together.”
Many looked our way and clapped.
“But most of all, I have to give a big shout out to the South and Rowe Street Mob.”
Absolutely everyone in green whistled or cheered.
Aunt Betty was already over by the stage taking pictures along with Aunt Min who had finally finished her Mahjong winning streak.
DJ Hendrix didn’t miss a beat. He cranked up “Hot Barbecue” again, the horns blaring as the crowd jumped up from their seats, laughing, clapping, and dancing.
The makeshift dance floor from earlier was quickly expanded due to even more people getting up to dance.
Soon, the staff began moving tables and chairs to make room for the growing dancers.
Moni grabbed my arm. “Come on, let’s dance!”
“Who? Me?”
“Yes, Lei.”
“I don’t know. . .”
“Don’t try to tell me you can’t dance, when I saw you dancing already—”
“When?”
“My private show.”
I let out a nervous chuckle. “That was different.”
I laughed, letting her pull me to my feet.
Oh fuck. Let’s hope I don’t embarrass myself.