“You are with the Furinos?” I ask.
The man answers by squeezing his eyes shut even tighter.
“You should know who is in a room before you attack,” I hiss. “I am Luka Volkov, and I could slit your throat right now.”
His entire body is trembling, blood from his shoulder wound leaking through his clothes and onto the floor. Every ounce of me wants this kill. I feel like a dog who has not been fed, desperate for a hunk of flesh, but warfare is not endless bloodshed. It is tactical.
“But I will not,” I say, pulling the blade back. The man blinks, unbelieving. “Get out of here and tell your boss what happened. Tell him this attack is a declaration of war, and the Volkov family will live up to our merciless reputation.”
He hesitates, and I slash the blade across his cheek, drawing a thin line of blood from the corner of his mouth to his ear. “Go!” I roar.
The man scrambles to his feet and towards the stairs, blood dripping in his wake. As soon as he is gone, I clean my knife with the hem of my shirt and slide it back into place on my hip.
This will not end well.Eve
I hold up a bag of raisins and a bag of prunes a few inches from the cook’s face.
“Do you see the difference?” I ask. The question is rhetorical. Anyone with eyes could see the difference. And a cook—a properly trained cook—should be able to smell, feel, and sense the difference, as well.
Still, Felix wrinkles his forehead and studies the bags like it is a pop quiz.
“Raisins are small, Felix!” My shouting makes him jump, but I’m far too stressed out to care. “Prunes are huge. As big as a baby’s fist. Raisins are tiny. They taste very different because they start out as different fruits. Do you see the problem?”
He stares at me blankly, and I wonder if being sous chef gives me the authority to fire someone. Because this man has got to go.
“You’ve ruined an entire roast duck, Felix.” I drop the bags on the counter and run a hand down my sweaty face. I grab the towel from my back pocket and towel off. “Throw it out and start again, but use prunes this time.”
He smiles and nods, and I wonder how many times he must have hit his head to be so slow. I motion for another cook to come talk to me. He moves quickly, hands folded behind his back, waiting for my order.
“Chop up the duck and make a confit salad. We can toss it with more raisins, fennel—that kind of thing—and make it work.”
He nods and shuffles away, and I mop my forehead again.
At the start of my shift, I strode into the kitchen like I owned the place. I was finally sous chef to Cal Higgs, genius chef in charge at The Floating Crown. After graduating culinary school, I didn’t know where I’d get a job or where I’d be on the totem pole, and I certainly never imagined I’d be a sous chef so soon, but here I am. And now that I’m here, I can’t help but wonder if it wasn’t some sort of trick. Did Cal give into my father’s wishes easily and give me this job because he needed a break from the insanity?
I’ve been assured by several members of staff that the dishwasher, whose name I can’t remember, has been working at the kitchen for over a year, but he seems to be stuck on slow motion tonight. He is washing and drying plates seconds before the cooks are plating them up and sending them back out to the dining room. And two of the cooks, who were apparently dating, decided that the middle of dinner rush would be the perfect time to discuss their relationship, and they broke up. Dylan stormed out without a word, and Sarah, who should be okay since she was the dumper, not the dumpee, is hiding in the bathroom bawling her eyes out. I’ve knocked on the door once every ten minutes for an hour, but she refuses to let me in. Cal has a key, but he has been shut away in his office all night, and I don’t want to go explain what a shitshow the kitchen is, so we are making do. Barely.
“Sarah?” I knock on the door. “If you don’t come out in five minutes, you’re fired.”
For the first time, there is a break in the crying. “You can’t do that.”
“Yes, I can,” I lie. “You’ll leave here tonight without your apron. Single and jobless. Just imagine that shame.”
I feel bad rubbing salt in her wound, threatening her, but I’m out of options. I tried comforting her and offering her some of the dark chocolate from the dessert pantry, but she refused to budge. Threats are my last recourse.
There is a long pause, and I wonder if I’m going to have to admit that I actually can’t fire her—I don’t think—and tell the staff to start using the bathrooms on the customer side, when finally, Sarah emerges. Mascara is smeared down her cheeks, and her eyes are red and puffy from crying, but she is out of the bathroom. As soon as she steps through the doorway, one of the waitresses darts in after her and slams the door shut.
“I’m sorry, Eve,” she blubbers, covering her face with her hands.
I grab her wrists and pry her palms from her eyes. When she looks up, her eyes are still closed, tears leaking from the corners.
“Go to the sinks and help with the dishes,” I say firmly. “You’re in no state to cook right now. Just focus on cleaning plates, okay?”
Sarah nods, her lower lip wobbling.
“Everything is fine,” I say, speaking to her like she is a wild animal who might attack. “You won’t lose your job. Cal
