The range is a 12-burner Italian beauty with dual ovens and a salamander broiler. Restaurant-grade refrigeration units linethe back wall, their stainless steel surfaces gleaming. The prep stations are positioned perfectly for workflow, each one outfitted with cutting boards, knife blocks, and every tool a chef could dream of.
He remembered. Every conversation we had about my dream kitchen, every offhand comment I made while cooking for him about what I wish I had, what I needed: he remembered all of it.
Somehow that makes everything worse.
Every day for a month, I’ve been here cooking, testing recipes, perfecting techniques, losing myself as I create a new familiar flow in this kitchen.
Anything to keep me out of the dining room. There, the amount of money that Vin spent is undeniable and very hard for me to accept.
Sixty seats arranged in a way that encourages conversation around tables made from reclaimed wood with copper accents. The chairs are upholstered in deep emerald velvet, my favorite color, a fact I only mentioned once. Edison bulbs hang from iron fixtures and cast a warm, golden light. A bar along one wall has shelving for wine that reaches all the way to the 25-foot ceilings.
It’s perfect. Every single detail is exactly what I would have chosen if I’d had unlimited money. Which is precisely the problem. I don’t have unlimited money, and I can’t accept this. I can’t build my dream on guilt money from a man who offered to keep fucking me as long as I understood I’d never be good enough to stand beside him.
But it’s amazingly perfect, and I can’t afford to replace it, either.
To be honest, I can’t afford to pay for any of this, but that didn’t stop me from reaching out to every vendor and asking them to talk payment plans.
“Mr. Demonio has already handled everything, Miss Bellamorte. For the next five years, our instructions are to direct all service questions to you, but billing goes through him.”
Five years. He’s locked me into accepting his charity for five years.
I’m stirring Carnaroli rice, vegetable stock, and butter from a small farm upstate for risotto when I hear heels clicking across the hardwood floor of the dining room.
“Sophie?”
Siena’s voice echoes in the empty space.
I call from the kitchen, “In here.”
She appears in the kitchen doorway, one hand resting on her very pregnant belly, her dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail.
“It’s beautiful,” she says, her eyes sweeping over the kitchen. “Sophie, this place is incredible.”
“It’s his,” I say without looking up. “All of it. I didn’t choose any of this.”
“But he chose it because he knows what you like.” Siena moves closer, watching me stir. “He chose exactly what you would have chosen. That has to mean something.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Are you suddenly on his side?”
She barks out a laugh. “Fuck no. All I’m saying is that this is, at the very least, an appropriate replacement for your restaurant that he is responsible for ruining. I’m not even touching all the other bullshit he did. That is unforgivable.”
The risotto is going to burn if I don’t keep moving, but I can’t seem to make my arm work. “How is he?”
Siena sighs. “We’re over this, right, Sophie? I thought you were focused on the restaurant.”
Over it? I wish I knew how.
“I have been working on the menus, the food. I hosted a couple of parties here. Mr. Cavallari from the old neighborhood has been coming as often as he can. But….”
“But you’re not over it,” Siena says softly. She sighs and glances away like she’s making a decision then turns back to me. “If it makes you feel better, Vin is a fucking mess. Matti says they’ve had Aurelio in custody for over a month but Vin won’t just end him, end the war, and move on.”
I stare at her, startled. “What? Why? I thought that was the whole point. This is what they’ve been working toward.”
“Right,” she nods. “Matti and Tommy don’t get it. Vin’s just been drinking and being a dick to everyone. He won’t answer the phone half the time. They’re just waiting for him to decide what to do next.”
I force myself to resume stirring, watching the rice absorb the stock, each grain swelling with liquid and flavor. Transformation through patience and heat. If only I could fix my life as easily.
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask.
