49. Allie
Allie
“Opening night! Are you excited?”
Sienna’s voice pierces through my eardrums and I physically flinch, pulling the phone away before my eardrum files for assault.
Vinnie glances at me in the rearview mirror, clearly amused. I just smile and nod, because what else can I do? We’re on our way to the restaurant, and I need to focus.
Instead of opening at our usual five in the evening, we’re holding off service until seven, only for those who booked reservations for the debut celebration. Tonight isn’t just about introducing me as head chef—it’s about launching the new direction of Via Napoli.
Changing the way a restaurant operates is risky. It’s akin to telling a die-hard coffee addict they can only have decaf from now on—people panic. Some don’t survive the transition. But, I have a vision.
Chef Monroe had a system—one that worked for years. Guests booked months in advance to enjoy his à la carte menu, expecting the same flawless execution every time. Now, I’m flipping the script.
Via Napoli will no longer be just a restaurant—it’ll be an experience.
Gone are the days of leisurely ordering from a menu. Instead, we’ll serve a tasting menu—an ever-changing, carefully curated five-course meal that keeps guests on their toes. No repeats. No spoilers. You book a reservation; you get whatever I decide you’re eating that night.
Risky? Hell yes.
Worth it? Jury's still in deliberations and taking their sweet ass time about it too.
The restaurant will open at six, allowing us to seat everyone, get drinks and the first course out, and then from seven to ten, it’s game on. A three-hour culinary adventure.
Will people love it? I sure as hell hope so. Will some of the food critics, a.k.a. blogger gremlins who couldn’t fry an egg if their life depended on it, hate it purely for the drama? Absolutely.
“I am. But I also want to puke.”
I finally respond when I’m sure I can hear properly again.
Sienna, a walking bottle of sunshine with a high SPF rating, gasps.
“Oh my god, are you pregnant?”
The squeak. The actual squeak in her voice.
I swear, in this family, nausea equals pregnancy. Stomach bug? Pregnant. Ate bad sushi? Pregnant. Drank one too many espresso shots and now you’re vibrating at a frequency only dogs can hear? Definitely pregnant.
I, however, am not pregnant. Nope. Not even a little.
Aunt Flo arrived with the enthusiasm of a vengeful ex that first week at the restaurant—which, conveniently, also doubled as the reason I didn’t end up crawling into my husband’s bed, desperate and ready to lure him in with siren-level seduction.
Did I tell Rico?
Nope.
Interesting how the second I stopped seeking him out, he moved me to his room.
Nonna might’ve been onto something—apparently, my husband operates on exactly one brain, and it’s not the one responsible for logic and reasoning.
Not that I was exploiting it. I was too busy juggling a new job, mood swings, and cramps that made me want to commit crimes.
But he didn’t know that.
“You’ll do fine! Dom and I got a sitter, and we’ll be there. Is Rico excited?”
“Is Rico ever excited?”
“Okay, fair point. But hey, Vi’s emerged from her writing cave, and she’s coming with Alex, which means cameras everywhere, since the paparazzi track her like she has an AirTag glued to her behind.
Rosa, bless her soul, is watching all the kids—ours and theirs.
I offered to hire a babysitter, but Dom has scared away every qualified childcare provider on the East Coast. So, we’ll see you at seven? ”
“I mean, I’m headed there now, but yes, I’ll see you both then.”
When I hang up, my stomach twists, and not in a good way. Not the had too much coffee and my intestines are staging a revolt way, but the might throw up in my lap from nerves way.
I didn’t eat breakfast, which is probably mistake number one, and the two cups of coffee sloshing around in my stomach aren’t helping. But, if I’m being honest, my anxiety has nothing to do with the debut itself.
I left a note for Rico on the coffee pot this morning, a simple reminder about tonight. Despite our newfound game of coexisting in the same room—where taunting each other seems to be the primary love language—I also sent him a text. A real one.
I told him I hoped he’d come.
That it would mean a lot.
And in doing so, I basically flayed myself open and handed him a knife. Because the brutal truth is, despite my best efforts, I think I’m falling in love with my husband.
A man who barely looks at me unless he wants sex. A man who speaks to me in five-word sentences, max. A man who has made it painfully clear that we are nothing more than a contractual obligation.
And yet, here I am, hoping.
I won’t be heartbroken if tonight goes poorly. But if my husband doesn’t show up for my debut?
I might be.
He’s made no promises. He’s done nothing to suggest he wants to be here. So why am I sitting in this car, pathetically hoping that—for once—he will?
“You doing okay?”
Vinnie’s watching me in the rearview mirror, fingers drumming against the steering wheel.
“Just nervous.”
“Don’t be.”
Easy for him to say.
“I’ve watched you work your ass off for two weeks. The staff loves you. Trust me, when I sit in the corner, they forget I exist. You’d be surprised what I overhear.”
“You? Invisible? Vinnie, you’re a six-foot-something wall of muscle who wears all black and looms in the corner. No one forgets you exist.”
He shrugs. “Still. They’re happy with the changes. That means you should be too.”
I nod, gnawing on my lower lip before realizing—shit, I cannot show up with a chewed-up lip for photos. I force myself to stop.
“What are you really stressed about?”
Vinnie masterfully maneuvers the monster SUV between two cars, effectively blocking three lanes of traffic in the only acceptable method of merging Manhattan-style—pure, unadulterated aggression.
“The debut. What else?”
Lie. Big, fat, ugly lie.
Okay, sure, I’m a little nervous about the debut.
Specifically, about the food bloggers, whose sole purpose in life is to nitpick every spice choice and splash of presentation on your plates.
I mean, if you want a job where you can rip apart every microscopic detail of someone’s life work and act superior while doing it, become a food critic.
But that’s not what’s tying my stomach in knots.
“I think you’re nervous he won’t come.”
Vinnie doesn’t even look at me when he says it. He just casually drops that truth bomb while ignoring the cab driver, who is now leaning halfway out his window, screaming a rather colorful array of curses at us.
“So what if he doesn’t come? He never said he would.”
And there it is. The deflation. The tiny bubble of hope popping when reality pokes it with a needle.
Hope. That bitch. She gets me every time.
I know Rico doesn’t care. I know he values his computer keyboard more than me. And yet, there’s still this tiny, ridiculous part of me that wants to believe he might surprise me.
Vinnie clears his throat, glancing at the cabbie, who is now rolling up beside us, still cursing at full volume. Without hesitation, Vinnie rolls down his tinted window, slides down his sunglasses, and stares.
The cabbie takes one look at him, goes dead silent, and slowly slinks back into his seat, facing forward.
To me, Vinnie is just a human-sized teddy bear who carries a gun.
But I’m not stupid. He was trained as a Cosa Nostra bodyguard, and fun fact, he was supposed to go to the Bennettis—aside from the Bratva—bodyguards for the Bennetti family are quite talented.
Had he not changed places with his brother, I might never have had such a reliable person next to me for most of my life.
He can be all warm smiles and bear hugs to me, but to everyone else? He’s a terrifying motherfucker.
“If he doesn’t come, I can break a bone or two.”
Vinnie’s jaw clenches, and he's serious about it too.
“No broken bones. My marriage is already hanging by a shredded thread. I don’t need it completely incinerated.”
But as I stare out the window, watching the city blur past, I say something I don’t even believe.
“He’ll come.”
And even as the words leave my lips, I know I’m lying to myself.