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.
