Page 87 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

31

RHETT

What the actual fuck were they doing here?

The question ricocheted through my skull as I watched my past collide with my present in the most spectacular, humiliating way possible. They stood in the cathedral doorway like they owned the place, their expensive suits and gold jewelry glinting in the candlelight, completely oblivious to the chaos they’d just unleashed.

Could they be any more obnoxious? This was a house of God after all.

“Clem, you should leave,” I said, not taking my eyes off the approaching storm. “Go back to the hotel. Now. I’ll stop by later. We’ll talk.”

But it was too late. They were headed straight for us.

“Rhett!” my cousin Tony’s voice boomed across the sanctuary, carrying enough volume to wake saints. “Look at this fancy place! Our little chef boy’s really moving up in the world!”

Before I could react, before I could put up any kind of defense, they descended on me like a pack of wolves. Wolves that wore nice suits.

Clem seemed to be frozen to her seat. She hadn’t made her escape and now it was too late. I got to my feet in an attempt to shield her. It was futile, but I had to try.

Tony reached me first, his massive arm snaking around my neck in what he probably thought was an affectionate headlock. “There’s our celebrity!” he announced to the entire room, delivering a solid punch to my ribs that made me grunt and stumble.

“Get off me,” I hissed, but Uncle Sal was already reaching over to ruffle my hair like I was still eight years old and tagging along behind them during family gatherings.

“Look at this kid!” Sal laughed, his meaty hand messing up the careful styling I’d managed before dinner. “All grown up and fancy now, but still our little Rhett!”

My cousin Marco joined the fray, slapping my back hard enough to make me stagger forward. “We saw you on that show last month. Ma cried, she was so proud. Kept rewinding the part where you told that jerk to kiss your ass.” He quickly made the sign of the cross. “Sorry, Padre.”

I just hoped if there was any smiting, I wouldn’t be the one standing next to him.

Camera flashes started going off like strobe lights. I could hear the whispers starting, see phones being discreetly lifted to capture this train wreck in real time. Food critics, society photographers, parish donors—all of them watching my carefully constructed professional image get demolished by my family’s idea of showing support.

They were enthusiastic to say the least. They had zero qualms about making a scene. They moved through life like bulls in china shops. They didn’t care who looked. They were very confident in who they were, and if people didn’t like them, which most didn’t, they ignored it. There was a level of confidence that went with being that comfortable in your own skin.

I managed to shake them off using my own size and strength. My chef’s coat was now wrinkled and my hair was standing at odd angles. “What the hell are you doing here?” I hissed, keeping my voice low but making sure they could hear the fury beneath it.

“Supporting family!” my cousin Gabriel declared, spreading his arms wide like he was addressing a crowd. “Can’t a bunch of guys come eat their little cousin’s fancy food?”

These were my father’s people. It was the family tree in all its complicated, dangerous glory. Cousins who had grown up running numbers for bookies and uncles who married into families with connections that went back to the old country. I had a lot of in-laws whose legitimate businesses were just fronts for less legitimate enterprises. They were all part of the network that had centered around my father Luke before his arrest, and they wore their association with organized crime like a badge of honor.

But despite their reputation, despite the fear they inspired in people who knew what they were capable of, they’d always been more rambunctious than truly dangerous around family. These were the men who taught me to play poker and snuck me beer at family barbecues when I was fifteen. These were the people who celebrated every small victory in my life like it was their own personal triumph.

They were also the men whose presence at this elegant cathedral dinner was about to destroy everything I had worked to build.

“You should have stayed home,” I said through gritted teeth, acutely aware of the growing crowd of onlookers. “This isn’t the kind of support I need. Or the attention you want.”

“Aw, come on, Rhett,” Tony said, his voice carrying that wounded tone he’d perfected as a kid. “We drove all the way up here from the neighborhood. Ma made me promise to take pictures of you in your fancy chef hat.”

“I don’t wear a hat,” I snapped.

“Whatever. The point is, we’re here, we’re hungry, and we want to see what all the fuss is about.” Marco grinned and patted his substantial stomach. “I’ve been eating nothing but Chinese takeout for a week. I need some real food.”

We both knew that was bullshit. One of the fronts was an Italian restaurant. What good Italian mafia family didn’t have a restaurant on the books? It was where they all spent a lot of time. My mom wasn’t the only cook in the family.

“Listen,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm and reasonable, “why don’t I cook for you guys next week? I’ll make reservations at the restaurant. We’ll do the whole family dinner thing properly.”

“Next week?” Tony looked genuinely offended. “What, we’re not good enough for your fancy cathedral?”

“It’s not that⁠—”