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She turned the envelope over, seeing the postmark of New Orleans. It had been years before. He might not even live there any longer. If she were lucky, she could find him, slap his face, and maybe kill him.
No. Killing wasn’t in her instinct. But she could damn sure make his life miserable. Weston Islip. A fry cook turned New Orleans chef. One of the best from what she’d heard. Although cooking was never her passion, she found that she was very good at it as she tried new recipes to entice her mother to eat.
But making it in the top restaurants of New Orleans, or anywhere else in the world, would require the proper training. With a few hundred thousand dollars left from her mother’s life insurance policy she enrolled herself in culinary school. By next week at this time, she would be headed to Paris.
“We’re here, Miss Islip,” said the driver.
“Thank you,” she nodded.
Stepping out of the car beneath the black umbrella, she walked slowly toward the tent holding the remains of her mother. There were a few dozen people in attendance, mostly those her mother had worked with or close neighbors.
Casey never raised her dark glasses. She didn’t want anyone to see the dark circles and bags from crying. The minister gave a beautiful service, then read some thoughts that Marie had left for him to say.
“Marie asked that I read this for everyone, but especially for Casey. I leave this world with no regrets. I have loved one man. I have lived one life. I have born one child. My life is full and complete, though I wish it were longer. I wish I could live to see my sweet Casey fulfill her dreams, marry, have children of her own. I wish that I could be in the arms of my faithful husband once again. I have been a fortunate woman, and I leave this earth feeling blessed. Take a piece of me with you, as I will take a piece of you when I go. Casey, find your way. Find your path, but more than anything, find your father. You need one another.”
The crowd stared at her, some knowing their story, others not. Yet no one ever spoke to her of her father. Never. As the people passed her, they would lightly touch her arm, whisper words of sorrow and support, but for Casey, there was nothing that would be able to soothe her. Nothing.
She heard a loud crack of lightning and jumped, still staring down into the dirt hole. The driver touched her hand.
“Miss Islip, we need to get you out of here. It’s a bad storm.”
She nodded as he opened the umbrella, leading her away from the graveside. In her mother’s small home, dozens of people passed through, leaving food, flowers, and cards. They all tried to tell her stories of her mother’s amazing efforts as a kindergarten teacher. She would nod politely with a weak smile, then move into another room.
When the day was done, the crowds of people gone, she sat alone in the living room. Her black dress was still wrinkle-free, her black pumps with only a small dot of mud on them. There were enough leftovers to feed her for weeks, but they would all be tossed when she finally left the house.
The furniture would be sold as part of the home, a real estate agent handling the transaction. Everything she’d ever known as a child would be gone.
Accepted to the culinary school at just eighteen was highly unusual, but somehow, they’d said yes. She would become the best chef she could possibly be. The best woman she could be. Maybe Paris would be where she would find herself, find her path and her purpose. Maybe she’d finally have a clear direction to her life other than sorrow and pain. Anything but sorrow and pain.
When she was done with culinary school, she would go to New Orleans and find the father she barely remembered. The one she wasn’t sure she would even recognize. Did he really look at her photos? Did he really want to see her? Or was it all something her mother had made up?
Maybe he would recognize her before she made his life a living hell. The kind of hell her mother endured. Maybe then he would understand.
Maybe then she would finally be at peace.
CHAPTER TWO
“What’s on the list for today?” asked Nine, looking at the other men around the table. They’d dubbed it the roundtable, like the Knights of the same name. All men were equal, and all men would have a say in what they were going to take on for Gray Wolf. It had been this way with REAPER and all the businesses to follow.
“A few small security details for some social events,” said Gaspar. “We do have one that’s strange as fuck. He’s waiting outside.”
“Well, let’s bring him in,” said Nine.
Code stood and left the room to get their potential new client. The men all stared at one another, shrugging their shoulders. When the door reopened, Code stood with a middle-aged man. He was about six-feet tall, not obese, but definitely hadn’t missed any meals. His hair was cut close to his head, the top thinning somewhat. He wore loose-fitting trousers that tied at the waist and a long-sleeved t-shirt. On his feet were the ugliest shoes they’d ever seen.
“Everyone, thisis Weston Islip. Mr. Islip is thehead chef at La Fromage in New Orleans. He’s here asking for our help.”
“La Fromage? Isn’t that the five-star restaurant connected to the Crown Hotel?” asked Nine.
“It is,” he said, puffing his chest out a bit. “The Crown wasn’t even considered a destination hotel until I took over as chef, and I’m very proud of that. I’m sure that sounds conceited to you, but I know that I’m the best chef in the city.”
The men just smirked, holding their tongues. They wanted to say that he wasn’t better than those on their own property, but they didn’t want to chase him away. At least, not just yet.
“What can we do for you, Mr. Islip?” asked Gabe.
“I’m not sure. Albert Doussaint said you helped him not too long ago and thought you could help me.” They waited for him to continue as he took the seat offered by Antoine. “Being a chef of a major restaurant and hotel is like being the quarterback of an NFL team. Some people love you; some people hate you. You have to make tough calls. Some nights you throw the ball, some nights you toss it, some nights you keep it.”
“Is this related to football?” asked Nine.
