Chapter 40
FORTY
brANDON
T his is it. No turning back now.
His assistant barely glances up as I approach. “He’s expecting you.”
Probably has been since the day I was born.
Elijah stands at the floor-to-ceiling windows, hands clasped behind his back like some corporate overlord surveying his domain. “Little brother.”
I cross the room and toss the envelope onto his pristine desk.
He turns, eying it. “Your resignation.”
“Got it in one.” I shove my hands in my pockets. “I’m out. For good.”
“About damn time.” He doesn’t even touch it. “Drink?”
“It’s 10 AM.”
“You just quit your job, and I’m going to be a dad.” Crystal clinks as he pours amber liquid into two tumblers. “I’d say that calls for a celebration. Almost thought you’d cave again.”
“You’ve been riding my ass about the company since—Wait. What?”
“Seven months from now, you’ll be Uncle Brandon.” There’s an unfamiliar softness in his expression, one I’ve never seen before. “Cheers.”
“Holy shit.” I stare at him for a moment before raising my glass. “Congratulations. Gemma must be thrilled.”
“She is.” Elijah studies his glass. “You know, becoming a father… it makes you think about Dad. About the things he did right and wrong.” He moves to his desk, pulling open a drawer. “He left something for you.”
My brain short-circuits.
He holds a thick manila envelope out to me. “Made me swear I’d only give it to you when you finally chose yourself over the family legacy.”
“What is it?”
“Open it and find out.”
The envelope is too heavy for paper. A weight that’s more than just physical. Like I’m holding the past in my hands.
My thumb runs over the deep red wax, the Milton crest embossed so perfectly it feels untouched. Preserved. Waiting.
Inside: a folded letter, thick paper that crinkles as I pull it free, a key, and a document stamped with official seals.
And then—a photo.
Mom and me in the kitchen, flour dusting our faces. Frozen in time. Before I knew what it meant to disappoint him. Before I ever thought I’d have to fight for this.
“Brandon?” Elijah’s voice pulls me back. “You okay?”
I manage a nod, unfolding the letter with trembling fingers.
Brandon, my dear son,
I should have told you this while I was alive.
But I was a coward.
In my last days, your beautiful girlfriend opened my eyes. Don’t be mad at her. But I saw you in that kitchen of Elliot’s, and for the first time, I truly saw YOU. Not the son I tried to force into my mold, but the man you’ve become despite me.
The man your mother would be proud of.
You have her gift. Her passion. Her ability to make people feel loved through food. I was a fool to try to stamp that out of you.
I’ve enclosed the deed to the old Giovanni’s building. I bought it years ago, when you first mentioned wanting your own restaurant. I was going to give it to you when you graduated, but then my pride got in the way. I convinced myself I knew better.
I didn’t.
The building’s been empty all these years, waiting for the right person. For you. It’s yours now, to do with as you choose. Though I hope you’ll consider it for your restaurant, the one I should have supported from the start.
I’m sorry, son. For everything. For not being the father you deserved. For letting my fear of you failing prevent me from seeing how spectacularly you could succeed. For saying the things I said.
Cook with love, like your mother taught you.
I know she’s proud of you, just like I am.
Dad
“He—I need to go.” I shove the letter and photo back into the envelope, clutching it like a lifeline. “I have to see?—”
He nods. “Go. I’ll handle things here.”
I’m already halfway to the door when his voice stops me.
“Brandon?”
I turn, one hand on the doorknob. “Yeah?”
“Make them proud, little brother.”
I bolt.
The drive to Giovanni’s is a blur. It used to be the place in the city, white tablecloths, three-month waiting list, and critics practically begging for tables. Old man Giovanni ran that kitchen like a symphony until his heart gave out.
His son took one look at the legacy waiting for him and ran for the hills. The place has been gathering dust ever since, a shrine to what it once was. Everyone in the industry wondered why such prime real estate stayed locked up, why no other restaurateur swooped in to claim it.
Now the truth hits me like an egg hitting the counter, cracked wide open.
My father.
The whole damn time, he was sitting on it. Waiting. For me.
You have your mother’s gift. Her passion. Her ability to make people feel loved through food.
The key slides into the lock with a click, and the door creaks open, dust swirling in the light. My footsteps echo, stirring up memories as I step inside.
It’s all still here.
The bar stretches along the left wall, marble dulled by time but still elegant, still standing. The dining room is silent, but in my mind, I hear it—the low hum of conversation, the clink of cutlery, the echo of Giovanni barking orders.
The kitchen door swings open with a familiar squeak. I used to push through it a hundred times a night, sneaking peeks at the magic happening beyond.
Now, it’s mine.
The massive hood system. The six-burner ranges. The prep stations where I used to watch old Giovanni break down whole fish with the precision of a surgeon. Sure, it needs updating, probably a complete replacement of most equipment. But the bones… fuck, the bones are perfect.
I trail my fingers along a stainless steel counter, leaving tracks in the dust.
I see it.
Pans hissing. Knives hitting cutting boards in quick, sharp rhythms. Voices calling orders and Yes, Chef! , the pulse of a kitchen in full swing.
This is what I’ve wanted since I was eight years old, standing on a milk crate next to Mom as she taught me how to make her marinara sauce. What I fought against because Dad made me think I had to choose between being his son and being myself.
Except he knew. He fucking knew all along.
My phone buzzes against my thigh.
Naomi: You okay? Elijah called.
I stare at the text, throat tight. How do I even begin to explain this?
Before I can ponder further, something catches my eye. A bottle of Macallan 18, untouched, pristine.
A folded note leans against it, his precise handwriting stark against the cream paper. To your dream. Love, Dad.
But it’s what’s behind the bottle that makes my heart stop. Fabric, yellowed with age, carefully folded. My fingers tremble as they close around the cotton, and I already know what it is before I unfold it.
Mom’s apron.
EMM still there in faded blue thread. Eleanor Marie Milton.
I trace each letter, remembering how she’d loop the strings around her waist two times because they were too long, how she’d wipe her hands on the sides, leaving flour handprints that drove Dad crazy.
The neck of the bottle feels cool against my palm as I grip it. One drink. Just one to steady my nerves. To process all this bullshit.
The seal breaks with a satisfying crack, and the rich aroma hits my nose. Notes of dried fruit, oak, and vanilla. Top shelf stuff. Only the best for a Milton.
I lift the bottle, press it to my lips?—
Fuck.
“Fuck!” The bottle leaves my hand before I fully register the decision. A sickening crack, then a sharp burst of amber and glass, shards glittering as they rain down. The scent of aged scotch fills the air, thick, suffocating, seeping into the grout like a wound that won’t close.
“It’s too fucking late!” I roar. “You hear me, Dad? It’s too late!”
My chest heaves.
I’m sorry, son. For everything.
“What’s the fucking point?” The words tear from my throat, raw and bleeding. “You’re not even here to see it.”
The apron bunches in my fists as I sink down against the wall, my head falling back. That’s what really burns. Not the letter. Not the building. But the fact that he’ll never walk through these doors. Never sit at my pass. Never taste what I can do.
He’ll never know.
“You don’t get to do this, Dad.” My voice cracks. “You don’t get to die before I could prove—“ The words choke off. “Before I could show you…”
Cook with love, like your mother taught you.
But what’s the point of cooking when the two persons I needed to taste it never will?
My phone won’t shut up.
Naomi: Brandon?
Naomi: Please answer.
Naomi: I’m coming over.
Naomi: Stay right there.
Naomi: Don’t move.
The screen blurs. What do I even say? Hey, cupcake, turns out my dead dad finally believed in me. Just fucking great timing, right? He left me the restaurant of my dreams, but he’ll never get to taste a single dish I make. Never get to see what I can do. What’s the point of proving yourself to a ghost?
The door creaks and soft footsteps approach until her shoes appear in my line of sight.
“Brandon?” Naomi crouches, keeping a distance. “Want to tell me what happened?”
The letter trembles in my grip as I fish it out.
Silently, her eyes scan the pages, with each twitch of her expression cutting into me. Surprise, understanding, something deeper I can’t name.
“So this is it?” Her voice is soft. “Your restaurant?”
I nod, Mom’s apron still bunched in my hands. “He knew. The whole fucking time, he knew. And now he’s not here.” I gesture at the shattered bottle, the amber liquid still dripping down the wall. “He’s just… gone.”
She settles beside me, her warmth barely there against my arm. “And that’s what’s really making you angry, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” I smooth out the apron across my knees. The fabric feels delicate, like it might dissolve if I handle it too roughly. “You know what the last thing I said to him was?”
“Brandon…”
“That I was done being his son.” I stare at the EMM stitched into the apron. Mom used to say cooking was about timing, knowing when to turn up the heat and when to let things simmer. “I can’t take it back. Can’t show him he was wrong about me.”
“Or maybe,” Naomi shifts, facing me fully, “you can show everyone else. Including yourself.”
“It’s not the same.”
“No, it’s not,” she agrees, her hand finding mine. “But this place? This letter? He saw you in that kitchen at Elliot’s. He understood, finally. Maybe too late to tell you himself, but he knew.”
The memory of my mother in the kitchen hits me again. Flour on her nose, that ridiculous singing while she cooked, and the way she’d dance between stations like the kitchen was her stage.
Cook with love.
“You know what really kills me?” I trace the faded thread of Mom’s initials. “Part of me had this stupid fantasy. Opening night, him sitting at the chef’s table. Serving him my food. Watching his face when he finally understood what I could do. What I’ve always been able to do. I wanted him to be proud.”
“He is proud.” Naomi’s hand finds my cheek, turning my face toward her. “And he wouldn’t want you to give up. Make this place everything you wanted to show him. Cook the food you wanted him to taste. Let that be your goodbye.”
“I don’t even know where to start.” My gaze sweeps across the dusty kitchen. “This place needs… everything.”
“Start with what you know.” She stands, pulling me up with her. “Show me.”
I tuck Mom’s apron carefully into my back pocket and move to the center of the kitchen. The layout clicks in my head, muscle memory from years of watching, learning, and dreaming.
“Hot line here.” My hands trace the air. “Six burners, flat top, char grill. Prep stations along this wall. Pass window there. Wider than the original, better flow.”
The vision builds with each word. “Wood-fired oven in that corner. Pizza, roasted vegetables, whole fish. I always wanted—” I clear my throat. “Dad used to talk about this bistro in Paris. How the bread there was unlike anything he’d ever tasted. I wanted to recreate that for him. Show him we could have that right here.”
“Bread. I like that. What else?”
“Here.” I move to another station. “This would be for the veal. Mom’s osso buco recipe. The one time Dad actually smiled at dinner was when she made it. I perfected it last year, added my own twist.”
I move through the space, pointing out each station, each detail. The walk-in dimensions. The dish pit layout. The bar setup. It pours out of me like I’ve been holding it in for years. Because I have.
“Sounds like you’ve thought about this before.”
“Maybe a few times.” I rest my hands on a counter, grounding myself in the cool metal. “When I couldn’t sleep. After bad days at the office. I’d design it in my head. Over and over.”
She fits herself against my side. “And now?”
“Now…” I pull out Mom’s apron, the fabric soft against my palms. “Now it’s real. And fucking terrifying.”
She kicks off her heels, padding across the tile in her stockings. “Let’s start by cleaning this up.”
“Your feet are gonna get filthy.”
“Good thing I know someone with a really nice shower.” She looks around. “Do you think there are any cleaning supplies left?”
“You really want to spend your day cleaning a dead man’s peace offering?”
“No.” She checks her watch. “I want to spend my morning helping my boyfriend start his restaurant.”
His restaurant.
She glances up at me through her lashes, a smile tugging at her lips, and fuck—her smile. It’s the kind of smile that lifts me up while everything else tears me down. It’s a smile that calms my mind while doubts eat away at it. And when she smiles like this, I feel it in my whole body, a warmth that shoots right to my heart.
“I haven’t said yes yet.” I catch her wrist as she passes toward the door.
“Haven’t you?” She steps between my legs. “Sounded to me like you already accepted it. Planning every detail. That’s not something you do for a place you don’t want.”
She’s right. She’s always right.
“We’re gonna need cleaning supplies.” I place the apron behind me. “And probably tetanus shots.”
“I’m sure we can manage.”
“I fucking love you.” I don’t give her time to answer, crushing my lips to hers, and everything beyond her vanishes.
Dad’s letter, the weight of his absence, the dishes he’ll never taste. There’s just Naomi, warm and real, in my arms, tasting like coffee and the sweetest cupcake.
I break the kiss. “You know this is gonna be hell, right? Months of work. Late nights. Me being a complete asshole when things go wrong.”
“So, business as usual then?” Her fingers trace patterns on my chest.
“I’m serious.” I catch her hand, holding it still. “This place… it’s not just a restaurant. It’s everything I’ve wanted since I was a kid. Everything I fought against because of him. If I fuck this up?—”
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Actually, I do.” She pulls back, meeting my eyes. “And yeah, it’ll be hard. You’ll probably want to throw things?—”
“Already did.” I nod toward the broken bottle.
“—and there will be days when nothing goes right. But you’ve got this. You’ll create something that would have made both your parents proud.” Her thumb brushes my jaw. “They’ll both be here, in every dish you serve. And you’ve got me.”
The certainty in her voice hits something deep in my chest. She believes in me. Not because she has to, not because we have some deal, but because she sees something in me worth believing in.
Because I’m enough.
“You really want to help clean this place?”
“Well,” she glances down at her stockinged feet, now grey with dust, “I’m already committed.”
“Alright, cupcake.” I glance around, exhaling slowly. “Let’s create something out of this mess.”
Something worthy of their memory. Something uniquely mine.