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The fox-faced man runs his tongue along his lower lip. “I was here last night for drinks. Shame you decided to change your outfit. I liked the skirt.”
The men laugh, enjoying themselves at my expense, and I just continue to smile. If this man wants to get under my skin, he is going to have to try a lot harder. I’ve had a lot of shit thrown my way in the past few days, and I’ve become pretty immune to the smell.
“What is your problem?” I ask.
I can see the gears in the man’s head turning. He is trying to come up with another snarky comment, something to get his friends laughing, but when I raise my eyebrows impatiently, he sighs and pushes his plate forward. “Your dipshit waiter spilled water in my dish.”
I look at his plate, and sure enough, the chicken is floating in a small pond of watered-down balsamic glaze. Felix.
“I’m so sorry about that,” I say, grabbing his plate. “I will get you a new one immediately, and your meal is on the house.”
“What about my friends?” he asks.
I look at each of their plates. “Did he spill water in their dishes, too?”
None of them answer.
“No? Well, then, I’m afraid that will be full price.”
“Bitch,” one of the men mutters as I walk away, but I barely hear him. I’m in autopilot. I just have to get through this shift. Get through the shift, and I can go home. It becomes my mantra for the night.
I’m worried the fox-faced man will request to speak to the actual chef since I refused to comp his entire table’s meal, but he leaves without incident. It doesn’t seem like it would have mattered anyway, though, since Cal disappeared halfway through service. His office door is open, but he isn’t in the kitchen or the dining room, and no one seems to know where he went. I assume he is off smoking a joint in the alley, but everyone stays on their best behavior—and continues ignoring me—just in case he shows back up unexpectedly.
He doesn’t. Not when the dining room closes for the night. Not when the cooks leave. Or when the cleaning staff leaves. Cal doesn’t show up to turn off the lights or lock the doors, so I stay behind and do it all, knowing I still won’t get any praise from him for doing his job. In all likelihood, my run-in with Ivan Volkov has ruined my reputation with Cal forever, and he’ll never let me live it down.
And if my father gets his way, it won’t matter. I’ll be married to Luka Volkov, and I doubt he is the kind of man who would let me keep my job. The wife of a Bratva boss is supposed to look beautiful and live a life of ease. If your wife has to work, you must not be a good enough boss. So, my years of culinary school will be down the drain, and I’ll be living the life my father always wanted for me, spending my days cooking for my husband and, probably, children. The idea makes me sick.
I wipe down the counters with more vigor than usual, taking out my frustrations on the stuck-on food and oil. When everything is squeaky clean and Cal still hasn’t shown up, I leave a note on his office door—Locked up for you. You’re welcome. Eve—and leave.
I step into the alley and lock the back door behind me. There are only two cars there—mine and Cal’s—which is normal. The two cooks who broke up two nights ago are back together and carpooling again, and they also gave Felix a ride. Makayla walked over from the café, and the dishwasher takes the bus. All of which means me and Cal are the only two who regularly use the small lot reserved for employees. The strange thing, however, is that Cal is still nowhere to be seen. I’d assumed he was in the alley or had taken off early without telling anyone, but if his car is still there, then where is he?
I walk closer, an eerie feeling creeping into my chest with every step. My head is on a swivel, turning to look for any sign of Cal or anyone else. I don’t notice that the roof light is on in Cal’s car until I’m ten feet away. The driver’s side door is open, and it looks like someone is slouched down in the front seat.
Something is very wrong.
“Cal?” My voice is shaky, and I cough to try and steady it. “Cal, are you okay?”
He doesn’t move, and I can hear his car incessantly beeping at him to close the door. When I round the back of the car, I see Cal’s meaty leg sticking out. His black pant leg is pulled halfway up his calf, and his foot is resting unnaturally to the side. Like he has fallen asleep.
Then, I see the blood.
It is trickling down his ankle, rolling down the inside of his pants, and gathering in his sock. Slowly, keeping a five-foot radius from his door, I walk around so I can see his face and confirm what the nauseous growl in my stomach has already told me.
Cal Higgs is dead.
His lips are blue and the front of his white apron is splattered with blood like he had just butchered a pig. I fall to my knees.
I hated Cal. He deserved my hatred, with his cruelty and habit of disappearing to get high, leaving me in charge of his shit kitchen staff. But he didn’t deserve this death. Stabbed in his car and left for some hapless stranger to find.
I don’t have to wonder who would want to do this. I saw Luka’s switchblade. He and his father were angry with the restaurant, upset with my actions, and maybe they decided to take it out on Cal. Or maybe, even worse, they killed Cal simply as a message for me. His death is meaningless except as a warning sign of what is coming for me.
Luka Volkov is a monster, and I’ll never marry him. Even if it means turning my back on my father’s wishes, I will never marry him.
The blood isn’t flowing anymore, so Cal has been dead for awhile, meaning there is no need to rush and call the police or an ambulance. He can’t be saved. I sit on the pavement and cry.
6
Luka
