51. Allie
Allie
“Allie, this is unbelievable.”
Mama’s hand wraps around my arm, tugging me down to her level at the table before she presses a kiss to my cheek. Her eyes are gleaming, her smile radiant, and her entire presence beams with pride. It should make me feel warm. Happy even.
But the only warmth I feel is the heat simmering under my skin from rage.
Not at her. Not at the restaurant. Not even at the food bloggers sitting in the corner with their notepads, whispering what I can only hope will be positive reviews that go live before midnight.
No. I reserve my rage exclusively for one person.
Rico.
The one person who has never shown an interest in this marriage outside of its sole purpose (read: pregnancy) said he would come, and yet he's not here. So, why am I disappointed? Shocked even?
The doors opened at seven, reservations filled every table, and the night has moved seamlessly. The wine pairings are on point, each course is rolling out specifically when it should, and the restaurant is filled with murmurs of praise. It’s exactly the opening every chef dreams of.
The Bennetti family has taken over the entire back half of the restaurant on the dais that sits just below the private dining rooms. A sea of dark suits, perfectly styled hair, and the undeniable presence of power. Everyone is here.
Cousins. Siblings. Nonna. Mama. Papa.
The only person notably missing—three courses in?
My husband.
I force a smile, but my entire body is wobbling under the weight of it.
“Thank you, Mama,” I manage, squeezing her arm.
Papa watches me closely, his affectionate brown eyes filled with something too familiar and definitely not something I need tonight of all nights. Pity.
I know that look well. I saw it in the weeks leading up to my wedding. I saw it on my wedding day when I stood at the altar with a man who showed up with all the enthusiasm of a tax audit. And I see it now, in the middle of what should be my night.
“I need to get back to the kitchen, but I’ll come out again after dessert, okay?” I kiss Nonna’s cheek, but before I can step away, her hand clasps around mine, holding me in place.
It’s a simple touch. Just a small squeeze.
But it’s enough to make my carefully contained emotions threaten to spill over.
I nod quickly, pulling away before the dam cracks and I become that girl—the one who cries in front of a full dining room on the most important night of her career.
The moment I slip through the double doors of the kitchen, I let out a long breath, but my body is still humming with tension.
Smiling at the patrons.
Thanking them for their compliments.
Acknowledging how much they love the new concept.
I nod. I smile. I thank them.
Over and over.
All the while feeling as though my face is cracking into a million tiny pieces and my heart has already demolished itself.
The food is exceptional. Every course was flawlessly prepared. The team is streaming along, and yet every bite I take from the line turns to ash in my mouth.
Kai finally took over tasting, throwing me a glance every five seconds but wisely keeping his mouth shut. He made the mistake of asking if I was okay once, then quickly realized I was a woman on a warpath and he was in a place loaded with nothing but very sharp objects.
When I eventually find a minute to breathe, I duck into the small alcove where we store the pottery, pressing myself against the cool wall and wiping away the one persistent tear that dares to escape.
You will not cry over him.
You will not cry over a man who made it abundantly clear what this is.
I pull my phone from my pocket, checking the time—8:42 PM—and then, against my better judgment, I check for a text. A missed call. Something.
Nothing.
My stomach clenches as another tear betrays me, sliding down my cheek.
I wipe it away fast.
I should have known better.
I know better.
But that na?ve flicker of hope? That ridiculous belief that maybe, just maybe, I matter to him in some capacity? It refuses to disappear.
Did he do this on purpose? Did he ignore my messages all day just to toy with me? To punish me for taking over his closet? For pushing his buttons?
Would he really be that cruel?
A throat clears, and my head snaps up.
Kai.
His arms are crossed, and his expression is unreadable as he stands in front of the alcove, watching me.
I shove my phone into my pocket and straighten, forcing every ounce of emotion from my face.
“Yes?”
Kai holds up both hands, like he’s warding off an actual beast. “I know you said not to ask, but…” He pauses, eyes softening. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Yes. You can focus on making sure the Secondo is ready to go out.” My words are clipped as I adjust the chain around my neck—a chain that suddenly feels heavier than ever.
Kai hesitates, then glances over his shoulder at the kitchen, where the line is still running efficiently.
“Allie…” His voice is quiet as he takes a slight step forward, placing a hand on my shoulder. “I know you’re upset he’s not here, and it's okay to be upset.”
“It’s fine. I told you. Our relationship isn’t like that.”
“So, you’re crying because… what? You snorted an onion?”
“Maybe I did.” Hell, I wish I had an onion right now. At least then, I’d have a justifiable reason for the tears burning the backs of my eyes.
Kai doesn’t buy it.
And instead of pressing, his hand tightens on my shoulder before he pulls me into his chest, wrapping both arms around me.
It’s warm. Solid. Safe.
I don’t even care that my face is currently buried in his chef’s coat, probably smearing mascara and the remnants of my dignity all over the lavish fabric.
“Maybe he’s running late,” he offers.
I snort. Loudly. “Yeah. Maybe he's giving a TED Talk on how to emotionally scar your wife in five easy steps.
Kai chuckles, pulling back just enough to examine my face. He reaches into his apron and pulls out a tissue, handing it over.
“Here. For the lingering goth look you’re sporting.”
I take it, ignoring that comment, and start dabbing at my eyes.
“Thanks.”
I follow Kai back into the kitchen just as the Secondo is being plated.
The saucier catches sight of me and visibly stiffens, her eyes darting to Kai like he’s her emotional support human.
I may have… over-corrected her plating on the Antipasto.
Okay, I definitely did. First, the sauce was too far to the left.
Then, too far to the right. Then, well, just wrong.
I was emotional. Sue me.
But right now, I’m all smiles—cool, collected, and totally not a kitchen dictator on the verge of a breakdown. “Looks perfect,” I say, flashing what I hope is an encouraging grin.
She offers a smile in return, though it resembles someone narrowly escaping an encounter with a mountain lion more than someone receiving a compliment. Progress.
One of the biggest changes I made to the restaurant was ditching the godforsaken white chef’s coats.
Chef Monroe had insisted on tradition. I, however, did not need my team walking around looking like a crime scene by course three — we deal in marinara for hell's sake. Instead, I switched the crew to a deep red—practical, elegant, and way better at hiding every splatter of sauce, grease, and sanity-draining moments. Their names and stations are embroidered in gold, tying into the restaurant’s aesthetic.
My coat? Black. Because I like to look the part of the kitchen overlord.
Kai, meanwhile, wears the deep red but with black accents on his rolled sleeves, setting him apart on the line.
We make our way toward the back of the kitchen, and he holds out a shot of tequila.
I narrow my eyes. “Why do we have tequila in an Italian restaurant?”
“Because it solves the world’s problems?” He downs his in one go, not even cringing.
I follow suit, the burn searing down my throat, instantly heating my already very warm body. Between the tequila and the suffocating tension pressing against my ribs, I’m teetering between relaxed and ready to throw myself into the nearest walk-in freezer.
Kai takes one look at my expression and pours another.
I wiggle my empty shot glass with dramatic flair. “Make it a double. Apparently, my husband has mistaken my very public, very important debut for an event he definitely does not need to attend.”
Kai doesn’t even hesitate. “I’ll make it a triple.”