Afterburn (Afterburn & Aftershock #1)(2)
Author: Sylvia Day

She tilted her head to the side. “I hope you do.”

Realizing I’d come to the end of the road, I thanked her for her time and left with as much dignity as I could manage.

As far as Mondays went, that was one of the worst of my life.

* * *

“I’M TELLING YOU, she’s an idiot,” Angelo said for the second time. “You’re lucky you didn’t get that job today.”

I was the baby of the family, with three big brothers. He was the youngest. His righteous anger on my behalf made me smile despite myself.

“He’s right,” Nico said. The oldest of the Rossi boys—and biggest prankster—bumped Angelo out of the way to set my meal in front of me with a flourish.

I’d chosen to sit at the bar, since Rossi’s was packed as usual, the dinner crowd boisterous and familiar. We had a lot of regulars and often a celebrity or two, incognito, who came here to eat in peace. The comfortable mix was a solid sign of Rossi’s great reputation for warm service and excellent food.

Angelo bumped Nico back with a scowl. “I’m always right.”

“Ha!” Vincent scoffed through the kitchen window, sliding two steaming plates onto the service shelf and ripping the corresponding tickets off their clips. “Only when you’re repeating what I said.”

The ribbing coaxed a reluctant laugh out of me. I felt a hand at my waist the moment before I smelled my mother’s favorite Elizabeth Arden perfume.

Her lips pressed against my cheek. “It’s good to see you smile. Everything happens—”

“—for a reason,” I finished. “I know. It still sucks.”

I was the only one in my family who’d gone to college. It’d been a group effort; even my brothers had pitched in. I couldn’t help feeling like I’d let them all down. Sure there were hundreds of restaurateurs in New York, but Lei Yeung didn’t just turn unknown chefs into name brands, she was a force of nature.

She spoke frequently about women in business and had been featured on a number of midmorning talk shows. She had immigrant parents and had worked her way through school, making a success of herself even after being betrayed by her mentor and partner. Working for her would have been a powerful statement for me.

At least, that’s what I’d told myself.

“Eat your fettuccine before it gets cold,” my mother said, gliding away to greet new patrons coming in.

I forked up a bite of pasta dripping with creamy Alfredo sauce as I watched her. A lot of customers did. Mona Rossi was closer to sixty than fifty, but you’d never know it from looking at her. She was beautiful and flamboyantly sexy. Her violet-red hair was teased just high enough to give it volume and frame a face that was classical in its symmetry, with full lips and dark sloe eyes. She was statuesque, with generous curves and a taste for gold jewelry.

Men and women alike loved her. My mom was comfortable in her skin, confident and seemingly carefree. Very few people realized how much trouble my brothers had given her growing up. She had them well trained now.

Taking a deep breath, I absorbed the comfort around me—the beloved sounds of people laughing, the mouthwatering smell of carefully prepared food, the clatter of silverware meeting china and glasses clinking in happy toasts. I wanted more out of my life, which sometimes made me forget how much I already had.

Nico came back, eyeing me. “Red or white?” he asked, setting his hand over mine and giving a soft squeeze.

He was a customer favorite at the bar, especially with the women. He was darkly handsome, with unruly hair and a wicked smile. A consummate flirt, he had his own fan club, ladies who hung out at the bar for both his great drinks and sexy banter.

“How about champagne?” Lei Yeung slid onto the bar stool next to me, recently vacated by a young couple whose reserved table had opened up.

I blinked.

She smiled at me, looking much younger than she had during our interview, dressed casually in jeans and a pink silk shell. Her hair was down and her face scrubbed free of makeup. “Lots of rave reviews about this place online.”

“Best Italian food ever,” I said, feeling my heartbeat quicken with renewed excitement.

“A lot of them say a great place got even greater over the past couple of years. Am I right in assuming that’s due to you putting into practice things you’ve learned?”

Nico set two flutes in front of us, then filled them halfway with bubbling champagne. “You’re right,” he said, butting in.

Lei caught the stem of her glass and stroked it with her fingers. Her gaze caught mine. Nico, who was good at knowing when to disappear, moved down the bar.

“To get back to what you said…” she began. I started to cringe, then straightened up. Lei Yeung hadn’t made a special trip just to berate me. “Ian underestimated me, but he didn’t take advantage of me. Blaming him would give him too much credit. I left the door open and he walked through it.”

I nodded. The exact circumstances of their split were private, but I’d inferred a lot from the reports in industry magazines and filled in the rest from gossip columns and blogs. Together they’d had a culinary empire comprised of a stable of celebrity chefs, several restaurant chains, a line of cookbooks and affordable cookware that sold in the millions. Then Pembry had announced the launch of a new chain of eateries bankrolled by A-list actors and actresses—but Lei hadn’t been part of that.

“He taught me a lot,” she went on. “And I’ve come to realize he got as much out of that as I did.” She paused, thoughtful. “I’m getting too used to myself and the way I’ve always done things. I need fresh eyes. I want to feed off someone else’s hunger.”

“You want a protégée.”

“Exactly.” Her mouth curved. “I didn’t realize that until you pointed it out. I knew I was looking for something, but I couldn’t say what it was.”

I was totally thrilled but kept my tone professional. I swiveled toward her. “I’m in, if you want me.”

“Forget about normal hours,” she warned. “This isn’t a nine-to-five gig. I’ll need you on weekends, and I might call in the middle of the night…. I work all the time.”

“I won’t complain.”

“I will.” Angelo came up behind us. All the Rossi sons had figured out who I was talking to and, as usual, none of them were shy. “I need to see her every once in a while.”

I elbowed him. We shared a sprawling, half-finished loft apartment in Brooklyn—all three of my brothers, me and Angelo’s wife, Denise. Most of the time we bitched about seeing one another too often.