Prologue #2
While orders flew and pans screamed and my line cooks moved like synchronized swimmers through controlled chaos, I made her lunch.
Simple and perfect, handmade tagliatelle with brown butter and sage, lemon zest, cracked black pepper, the sort of dish that shows you everything about a cook because there's nowhere to hide.
We sat in the back of the kitchen, me still in my whites and her still dripping underneath the towel I gave her, and we talked.
Found out she'd been modeling in Paris, that she spoke French with an accent that made me want to hear her say my name, that she was helping her uncle's butcher shop while figuring out what came next.
She told me I took my job too seriously, and I told her she should get back on a runway and leave the meat business to people who gave a damn.
We laughed, and somehow without planning it, without meaning to, I got stuck with her crazy ass.
Wouldn't have it any other way.
Now, seven years later, I watched her across a table she shouldn't have had, in a restaurant so full we were turning away people, and I cut through her rant like a blade through warm butter.
"This is your fault, Aurelia."
Her mouth snapped shut, eyes going wide, pupils dilating like I'd slapped her.
"What?"
"You heard me."
"How is this my fault, Dillion? He's the one who..."
"This ain't the first time, Ru." I leaned back with my arms crossed, watching her the way I'd watch a reduction on the stove, careful and knowing exactly when it would hit the right consistency.
"Every holiday, every birthday, every goddamn occasion, you sit here disappointed because that man won't prioritize you.
He refuses to speak your love language, refuses to even learn it, and instead of cutting him loose, you keep handing him the knife and acting surprised when he carves up your heart. "
Her expression flickered, going from defensive to wounded in the time it takes a match to catch.
She blinked once, twice, processing what I'd said. Then she sank back into her chair like all the air had left her body, her hand going to her hair, fingers disappearing into those curls and tugging at a strand the way people touch worry stones.
"You're an asshole," she muttered into her wine glass as she picked it up.
I smirked because I couldn't help it. "'Cause I tell you the truth?"
She rolled her eyes so hard I thought she might see the back of her skull.
"I hate having a male best friend. If I were talking to one of my girls right now, she'd tell me men ain't shit, and we'd be plotting to slash his tires, key his car, real solidarity shit.
" She swirled her wine and watched it catch the candlelight.
"But you? You're always so damn logical. "
I chuckled.
"Somebody's gotta keep it real with you…I never lie to you, Ru."
"I know." Her shoulders sagged just a fraction, like a building settling on its foundation.
She stared at her wine, then back at me, with a look that seemed like disappointment.
"You think I'm stupid, Dilly Duck?"
I groaned and shook my head. "What did I tell you about calling me that?"
I reached across the table and took her wine glass, helped myself to another slow sip. I needed to be back in the kitchen, needed to check plates and bark orders and keep this machine running smooth, but here I was with her, always with her.
She leaned forward with her eyes locked on mine now. "Dillion Casey Duckworth the Third. Do you think I'm stupid?"
I sighed and ran a hand over my face. "Not stupid. Hardheaded as hell, though."
I leaned in closer with my elbows on the table, close enough I could smell her perfume, that Chanel No. 5 I bought her for her last birthday, all jasmine and May rose hanging in the air between us.
"I been telling you to leave that man, Ru."
She exhaled long and slow, like she'd been holding her breath underwater and finally broke the surface. I watched her fingers trace the rim of her wine glass in slow circles.
"Well... thanks for making my Valentine's Day special," she whispered as a sad smile tugged at her lips.
The candle between us gave up and went out with barely a whisper.
"Je prends toujours soin de toi," I said, my voice low and meaning it. I always take care of you.
She looked up at me with glassy eyes, the whole damn world reflected in them. "Tu es le seul qui le fait." You're the only one who does.
She knew this like she knew the sun would rise every damn morning, knew it the way she knew her own name, the way she knew that her man would let her down again the next day and the day after that. And yet, she wouldn't be with me.
"Man, ya'll better let me in this bitch! My woman is in there!"
The voice ripped through the dining room like a gunshot in a library. Every fork stopped mid-air. Every conversation died. Heads turned in slow motion, eyes wide, mouths slightly open.
I knew that voice before I even turned around.
That voice that sounded like nails on a chalkboard, like broken glass dragging across concrete.
My hands stilled on Aurelia's wine glass, as I closed my eyes and began a calming breathing technique.
Something ancient and ugly stirred in my chest, something I'd spent years burying under three-piece suits, chef whites and Michelin stars.
"I know the owner!" Asher's voice boomed louder now, words slurring and bleeding into each other like watercolors in the rain. Drunk. Of course he was drunk. "And I know he got my woman in there!"
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
I could feel my staff freeze, could feel Marie at the host stand calculating her next move, probably reaching for her phone to call Westonberry PD.
But all I could really feel was the blood rushing in my ears, drowning out the Coltrane playing soft through the speakers.
When I opened my eyes, Aurelia’s face had gone ashen, eyes wide with the brand of horror that comes from watching your private life detonate in public.
"Oh my God, I'm sorry," she whispered, the words barely making it past her lips before she was up, chair scraping against hardwood, heels clicking toward the entrance.
I was up before I realized I'd moved. My legs carried me forward on autopilot, long strides eating up the distance between us.
I could now see the scene unfolding: Asher at the front entrance of my pristine $200 a plate dining room, my name on the sign outside, three generations of my family's legacy hanging in the balance.
And this drunk motherfucker was about to burn it all down.
I caught up to Aurelia just as she reached the host stand. Asher stood there, swaying slightly, shirt half-untucked, eyes bloodshot and glazed. He reeked of Hennessy and bad decisions. Behind him, through the glass doors, I could see a few people on the sidewalk slowing down, phones already out.
"Knew yo ass was up here wit this nigga!" He pointed at me, finger stabbing the air like a weapon with his eyes locked on mine. "Chef Dillon Duckworth the Third," he sneered my full name like it was an insult.
Aurelia spun around, just now realizing I was right behind her. Her eyes met mine, pleading. Don't, please don't.
Fine. I stood there, ten feet back, hands loose at my sides despite every instinct I had that was screaming.
My hands wanted to curl into fists. My shoulders wanted to square up.
That old version of me, the one who grew up in settling disputes with knuckles and split lips, was clawing at the surface, begging to come out and play.
But this wasn't Dillion who got thrown in the county jail before he father sat him down to ask him what he planned on doing with his life. This was Capa Dillon. This was white tablecloths and wine lists and people who made reservations six months in advance. So I held my ground.
"Asher, stop! This is not that kind of establishment for you to be coming up here starting a ruckus," Aurelia said, her voice strained but controlled.
Asher laughed as he started pacing, thumping his fist into his palm in a rhythm that made my molars grind.
"Every time we get into it, you go runnin' to this nigga!" His voice rose, bouncing off the exposed brick walls, the high ceilings. "He your man or me?!?"
I watched the other diners. Watched them try not to watch. Watched them fail. A woman in a black dress clutched her pearls. An older gentleman signaled for the check.
My restaurant. My reputation. My life's work. All of it circling the drain because this drunk fool couldn't handle his liquor or his woman.
"Let's go outside," Aurelia pleaded with him while reaching for his shoulder. "Baby, please. Let's just go outside and talk."
He jerked away from her touch so violently she stumbled back a step.
"Get the fuck off me!"
That's when the world narrowed and everything else disappeared. The diners, the music, the crystal chandeliers, gone. All I could see was Aurelia flinching, her body recoiling, that split second of fear flashing across her face.
I could feel it rising. That old hunger.
That old violence. The part of me that knew exactly how many steps it would take to close the distance between us.
Knew exactly where to hit him to drop him fastest. Knew the precise angle to wrap my arm around his throat and put him to sleep before he even understood what was happening.
Three seconds. That's all it would take. Three seconds and he'd be on the ground. But if I moved, if I let that monster out, I wouldn't stop at that.
I slowed my breathing on purpose. In through the nose, out through the mouth. I rolled my shoulders back. Made myself relax even though every nerve ending in my body was screaming for blood.
Asher's wild and unfocused eyes found mine across the space between us. Glassy with liquor and rage. But there was something else there too. Something that made my lip curl.
Recognition.