Neither of them responds to that.
Sophie’s restaurant opens in a few days. I imagine her in that kitchen happily cooking, strands of hair falling out of her ponytail. So fucking beautiful. I won’t fuck with her before she gets the doors open to the Arsenal. I owe her that much at least. But once that’s done, I’m not waiting any fucking longer than I have to. I’m going to figure out how to keep her in my life, and she will submit. That’s all there is to it.
“Set the date,” I say finally, turning back to them. “The end of January. Give me until the end of January.”
Matti nods. “Done.”
Tommy stands and straightens his jacket. “For what it’s worth,” he says quietly, “I think you’re making the right call.”
I don’t answer that. For the right call, it feels wrong as fuck. Anything that keeps me away from her in any capacity is the wrong fucking answer. But I’ll fucking figure it out. I have to.
9
SOPHIE
The Arsenal. Is. OPEN!
And it’s freaking amazing. I have no words, honestly. I can barely contain myself, trying hard to maintain my composure, greet guests, handle questions from the staff, oversee the food as it goes out. But I cannot stop smiling.
The restaurant is so packed it’s practically alive. Every table is full and people are waiting at the bar and in the upstairs lounge area to be seated. A jazz quartet plays softly in the corner, filtering into the buzz of conversation and laughter. Everyone seems to be as happy as I am, and for a moment, I let myself feel how incredible it all is.
Then I get back to work.
The dining room looks and feels exactly as I imagined andthe food is making people happy, but without Giovanna’s networking, no one would have even known about the Arsenal. I knew she was good at all things social, but I had no idea what she was capable of. The press are here to photograph not only the food and restaurant but the famous patrons she brought in: politicians, socialites, A list actors, C-suite employees of major companies. And all of them are not only eating but loving my food, leaning across my reclaimed oak tables to tell each other that they need to come back.
Ordinarily, I would be nervous, but for some reason I’m not. The Arsenal is ready. I’m ready. This place was built to be seen and enjoyed.
I cannot believe how well my staff are doing as well. My new wait staff are doing great, especially Marco, pleasant with the patrons even though they’re slammed. Plus the plates look incredible. The new line cooks listened well and pulled themselves out of the weeds twice without my help.
I am so proud I could cry, but I don’t cry in my kitchen.
“Table six wants to know how the burrata is made,” Marco says without looking up from inputting their order.
“Tell them with love and let them be frustrated.” I plate thebranzinoon my way past and slide it onto the pass-through window. “Fire thecarbonaraon seven.”
“Already fired.”
I smile and head back out onto the floor.
My parents are at table three, and my father waves as my mother brushes a tear from her eye. She’s been crying on and off sinceshe walked through the door, which is her way of showing she’s proud.
My father ordered theosso bucoand is eating it with the reverence of a man in church, the highest compliment in our family. When I stop at their table, he says, “Sophia!” with his eyes rolled heavenward and a hand gesture that says it all.
I smile and blow my mother a kiss. My parents’ reaction alone is enough to make my whole night. I will remember this moment for the rest of my life.
Siena is sitting with Matti, Giovanna, and Tommy in the round corner booth I feel is the best seat in the house. No babies tonight; they are home with Olivia and the nannies, which means they’re all fully indulging. I made sure to pile their table with appetizers and my best wine to keep them here as long as possible.
“Thiscarbonara,” Giovanna says, pointing her fork at me like a weapon, “is going to ruin me for all other pasta for the rest of my life. I want you to know that.”
“Good.”
“I’m serious. I’m going to resent you every time I eat inferiorcarbonaraand that’s going to be every time I eatcarbonarathat isn’t yours, which is basically all the time.”
I laugh. “I’ll take it.”
Tommy looks up from his plate long enough to meet my eyes and nod once, his version of a standing ovation. I feel like I’m flying.
Matti raises his glass. “To the Arsenal. And to Sophie, whostopped at nothing to make it happen.”
