Chapter Mateo
Mateo
MATEO WIPED DOWN A COUNTER that did not need wiping.
The marble already gleamed. The copper pans hung in perfect descending sizes. If he ran his finger along any surface in his restaurant, it would come away clean.
He wiped it again.
Because tonight April was coming.
The staff moved around him with the careful ease of people who knew his moods. They were used to his standards, his rituals, his perfectionism. They were not used to him hovering.
Mateo reached past his sous-chef to adjust a garnish that didn’t need adjusting. He moved a cutting board three inches to the left, then back again. He lifted a glass, inspected it, polished it anyway.
Nothing needed fixing.
He fixed it anyway.
Luca watched him from the pass, eyebrows lifted. “Chef.”
Mateo lifted a glass and held it up to the light. No spots. He polished it anyway, set it down, and went to the dining room.
Mateo stared at the tables.
April Feuller had eaten here at least once a week for two years.
He served her himself whenever he could.
She knew their names. Asked after Luca’s daughter, the dishwasher’s English classes, whether the new server was settling in.
She never snapped her fingers, never treated anyone like they were invisible.
She had her own menu, one of the old ones from before everything changed; the first versions of the dishes, the way they were meant to be tasted. They kept it in the kitchen. Her dishes at her prices. The staff called it her legacy menu.
Mateo checked that a burner that was off stayed off.
He wiped the counter again. The day she'd walked in with Killian Blackwood surfaced without permission. The ma?tre d’ had appeared in the kitchen with eyes the size of saucers and whispered, “Blackwood is here.”
April had stood beside him with that I belong anywhere composure she never seemed aware she carried. “Killian, this is Mateo. Mateo, this is Killian. You’re going to like him. He takes his food seriously.”
Two weeks later, a review had appeared in a place that mattered. After that, Mateo’s restaurant had stopped being a secret.
He wanted to take April in his hands and ask, very calmly, if she had any idea what she'd done to his restaurant. To his life.
To him.
He would have kept the place exactly as it was forever if she kept walking through that door.
His phone rang.
April’s name lit the screen, and his heart lurched.
He answered on the first ring. “April.”
He heard it immediately. Something was wrong.
“Cara,” he murmured. “What happened?”
The endearment had slipped out once, months ago, when she’d come in with red-rimmed eyes and ordered nothing but bread. He’d brought her cake instead. She hadn’t corrected him. He’d used it ever since.
“Then come now,” Mateo said, without hesitation. “Come to me now.”
Her breathing filled the line.
“Okay,” she whispered.
He set the phone down with unreasonable care.
He turned back to the kitchen.
Mateo clapped his hands once. The sound snapped through the room like a command.
“Listen,” he said. “You are all being paid to go home.”
Silence. Then everyone started talking at once.
“Chef, we have reservations—”
“It’s barely afternoon—”
“Is something wrong?”
The dishwasher, a teenage boy who had seen far too much human drama for sixteen, whispered, “Is it her?”
Mateo’s eyes cut to him.
The boy swallowed. “Legacy menu girl?”
Luca crossed his arms. “You are closing the restaurant.”
“I am hosting a private consultation,” Mateo said.
“With who?” someone called. “The Pope?”
Mateo’s mouth tightened. “You will be paid. You will eat. You will leave. Now.”
Someone muttered, delighted, “He’s making his move.”
Then the kitchen erupted. People grabbed bags. Texted. Laughed. Someone shouted, “We love you, Chef!” in the tone one used for doomed men.
Mateo handed out cash like a villain in a movie, too generous and too fast. He shoved containers into arms. Pressed tiramisu into hands.
When the last staff member left, Luca lingered in the doorway.
“Good luck, Chef. We’re all rooting for you. Don’t screw it up.”
Mateo’s glare was pure instinct. “Get out.”
Luca grinned and vanished.
The restaurant fell quiet.
Mateo stood in the kitchen that was finally still. Everything was ready. He was ready. He was absolutely not ready.
He dimmed the lights to a warmer glow, poured wine and let it breathe, lit the burner under a pan and waited until the heat was just right.
He wiped down the counter that didn't need wiping.
Again.
The cloth moved in slow circles.
Minutes passed.
The back door was fifteen steps away. He'd been resisting it all afternoon. He crossed to it and eased it open.
April was there.
Not at the door, but standing beneath the black awning, her face tilted up slightly, gaze fixed on something far away. Elsewhere. He'd seen that look before, the one where she went somewhere he couldn't follow.
She was here. But she needed a minute.
He eased the door shut again and stepped back into the kitchen. He turned to the prep work. Forced his hands into motion. She needed the choice. He had waited two years; he could wait until she was ready.
By the time the service door finally opened ten minutes later, the kitchen was prepared. The counters gleamed. The pans hung in perfect descending sizes. Mateo stood exactly where he had begun.
Ready for a new beginning.