“But—”
The man who was obviously Sofia’s grandfather turned to him with a stern look. “Young man, unless you’re planning to help in the kitchen, I demand you leave right now.”
“Fine.” He wrestled the tray from him. “Which way?”
The older man looked confused. “Which way to where?”
Lucas hauled the tray up. “To the kitchen.”
“What?” Sofia exclaimed. “What the fuck—get out of here!”
“Papa! Sofia!” the man in the kitchen bellowed. “Come on now!”
“Fine,” the old man said. “Come with me.”
“Pappoús!”
But Sofia’s cries of indignation were ignored as he followed the old man to the kitchen area. The old man pushed the swinging door to let him inside. As soon as he was in, he glanced around, trying to assess the situation. Sofia’s father was by the stove, watching over the pots and pans on the industrial-sized burners. There was only one other person there, a short, middle-aged Hispanic man crouched over the counter as he chopped onions with rapid speed without missing a beat.
“This is your crew?” he asked, surprised. “It’s Saturday night. And you’re fully booked.”
“Tell me about it.” The old man handed him an apron. “One server, a line cook, and my busboy–dishwasher all call out sick! Some bug going around. Then, it’s like the whole neighborhood decided they were fed up with cooking at home and decided to eat out tonight! Madness, I tell you.”
“Who is this man?” Sofia’s father pointed a wooden spoon at Lucas like it was a sword.
The old man scratched his head. “Eh, who are you again?”
“Lucas. Lucas Anderson.”
“Giorgios Selinofoto,” he introduced. “And that’s my son, George. George, this is Lucas. Sofia’s, uh—he came here to see Sofia.”
George Selinofoto’s piercing gaze bore straight into him. “Then why are you in my kitchen?”
“He wanted to help.”
Slate gray eyes looked him up and down. They were the only feature on his face that marked him as Sofia’s dad. “All right then. Help.” He turned back to the stove.
“Load those,” Giorgios pointed his chin at the tray of dirty dishes, “into the dishwasher. I’ll be out front, helping Nicki and Sofia.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lucas walked over to the large commercial dishwasher in the back. Placing the tray down on the sink, he began to systematically scrape the food from the dishes and load them into the dishwasher. By the time he was done, Giorgios had already placed a second tray by his feet. He made quick work of that as well, then started the machine.
“What else can I do?” he asked George.
“What do you know how to do?” the other man challenged.
Lucas looked around. “I can help with the prep.”
“Ernesto,” he called to the Hispanic man who was now slicing bell peppers. “Tell the boy what needs to be prepped then get on the grill.”
Lucas felt the corner of his lips tug up. He hadn’t been a boy in ages, but he wasn’t about to argue with a man in his own kitchen. He’d learned that lesson the hard way from Uncle Dante.
Using a mixture of pantomime and broken English, Ernesto told him which of the ingredients needed to be chopped and how.
“Gracias,” he said. “Yo me encargaré de ello.”
“Hablas Español?” The man looked bewildered.
He chuckled. “Un poco.” He’d only learned enough Spanish to work with the staff at Muccino’s. And most of them probably not words he would say in polite company. Grabbing the chef’s knife, he turned his attention to the tomatoes, thinking about the last time he was in a kitchen like this.
When he and Adrianna were young, his parents insisted they both learn everything about the family business—both Fenrir Corp. and his mother’s family’s successful chain of fine dining Italian restaurants—by working from the bottom. And so the summer they were sixteen, they both worked in the Fenrir Corp. mailroom and the Muccino kitchens on alternating days. Lucas had to admit, he much preferred the hot kitchen to the cool, climate-controlled environment of the mailroom. The heat and the frantic energy seemed exciting to him and he realized why his uncle Dante and now his cousin Gio loved it in there.
As the night progressed, he did almost every single job in the kitchen, except the cooking itself. George took a quick break, at which point his father took over. Giorgios must have been in his seventies, but he still moved with the speed of a man half his age. When George came back, he handed a plate to Lucas, then told him to take a break. He gobbled down the grilled squid and potatoes, not because he was in a hurry, but because it was delicious. The squid was cooked perfectly, not rubbery at all, and the potatoes were crisp on the outside and soft on the inside.
Giorgios came up to Lucas to put in another load of dirty dishes. “You don’t even look tired.”
He grinned. “I work out.” Not that he could tell the old man that he was a Lycan, and therefore he had a lot more stamina and strength than normal humans. A couple of hours in the kitchen would hardly take the wind out of him.
The old man patted him on the shoulder. “We’re almost done.”
An hour later, sometime after midnight, Lucas was dragging the mop from the broom closet when Ernesto grabbed it from him.
“No,” he said. “I take care.”
He smiled. “Thank you. Gracias.”
“You go to boss.” He pointed to the dining room, and he walked out of the kitchen. The dining room was empty, the tablecloths and centerpieces taken away and tabletops wiped clean. He saw Sofia and the other waitress standing by the bar counting out tips and headed their way.
“No, no, Nicki,” Sofia said, shaking her head. “Take it all. You deserve it.”
The younger woman’s eyes went wide. “I can’t! You worked the shift with me.”
“And you’re still in school. Besides, I only came because all those people called out sick and Dad and Pappoús needed the extra
