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I want to spin on my heel and storm away, making a grand exit, but in classic Eve fashion, my heel catches on the tablecloth, and I nearly trip. I fall sideways and throw an arm out to catch myself, knocking a nearly full bottle of wine on the table over. The glass shatters and red wine splashes across the tablecloth and onto the guests in the booth like a river of blood.
I pause long enough to note the old Russian man’s shirt is splattered like he has been shot before I continue my exit and head straight for the doors.
I suck in the night air. The evening is warm and humid, summer strangling the city in its hold, and I want to rip off my clothes for some relief. I feel like I’m being strangled. Like there is a hand around my neck, squeezing the life out of me.
Breathing in and out slowly helps, but as the physical panic begins to ebb away, emotional panic flows in.
What have I done? Cal Higgs is going to find out about the altercation any minute, and then what? Will he fire me? And if he does, will I ever be able to get another chef position? I was only offered this position because of my father, and I doubt he will help me earn another kitchen position, especially since I’m no closer to finding a boyfriend (or husband) since I left for culinary school.
Despite it all, I want to call my dad. He has always made it clear he will move heaven and earth to take care of me, to make sure no one is mean to me, and I want his support right now. But the support he offered me when a girl tripped me during soccer practice and made me miss the net won’t apply here. He will tell me to come home. To put down my apron and knife and focus on more meaningful pursuits. And that is the last thing I want to hear right now.
I pull out my phone and scroll through my contacts list, hoping to see a spark of hope amidst the names, but there is nothing. I’ve lost touch with everyone since I started culinary school. There hasn’t been time for friends.
This is probably the kind of situation where most girls would turn to their moms, but she hasn’t been in the picture since I was six years old. Even if I had her number, I wouldn’t call her. Dad hasn’t always been perfect, but at least he was there. At least he cared enough to stay.
I untie my apron and pull it over my head, leaning back against the brick side of the restaurant.
“Take it off, baby!”
I look up and see a man on a motorcycle with his hair in a bun parked along the curb. He is waggling his eyebrows at me like I’m supposed to fall in love with him for harassing me on the street, and the fire that filled my veins inside hasn’t died out yet. The embers are still there, burning under the skin, and I step towards him, lips pulled back in a smile.
He looks surprised, and I’m sure he is. That move has probably never worked for him before. He smiles back at me, his tongue darting out to lick his lower lip.
“Is that your bike?” I purr.
He nods. “Want a ride?”
My voice is still sticky sweet as I respond, “So sweet of you to offer. I’d rather choke and die on that grease ball you call a man bun, but thanks anyway, hon.”
It takes him a second to realize my words don’t match the tone. When it hits him, he snarls, “Bitch.”
“Asshole.” I flip him the bird over my shoulder and start the long walk home.
3
Eve
My feet hit the floor before I’m fully awake, and it takes me a second to understand why I’m up and moving at all. Someone is pounding on my front door. I glance at the clock on my nightstand. It is just before seven in the morning.
I stayed up late last night, nervously waiting for Cal Higgs to call and inform me I was fired after the stunt I pulled in the dining room. Not only did I spill wine on the mean Russian man, but the rest of the guests saw it. I’d put the reputation of The Floating Crown at risk, and firing me seemed like the only way Cal could set things right. But he didn’t call, so I reluctantly fell asleep, wondering when the other shoe would drop. Seven A.M., apparently.
Early morning light is filtering through the white curtains in my apartment, bathing the rooms in light, but my eyes are too busy adjusting to the brightness to do anything other than squint. I grab a sweater from the back of the couch, wrap it around myself to cover my bubblegum pink pajama shorts and tank top, and peer through the peep hole. I expect to see Cal Higgs or someone else from the restaurant there to fire me and bring me the purse I left in my locker since I was too busy running away to grab my things.
Instead, I see my father.
As soon as I slide the bolt over, my father opens the door from the other side and pushes past me. “What were you thinking, Eve?” he hisses.
I stumble back and shake my head. It is far too early for this. “What? Why are you here?”
My dad is a tall, thin man. Most men—especially in his line of work—are muscled and intimidating, but my father has always been intimidating in another regard. His natural thinness gives his face a gaunt appearance—eyes sunken in, cheeks hollowed, chin pointed. Like a skeleton. He looks like Death himself if the Grim Reaper ever gave up the shroud and scythe.
Of course, to me, he has always been my dad. But my love for him doesn’t mean I can’t see what other people see.
When he turns on me, I shrink back into the wall, terrified of the black fury in his eyes. “You started a feud with the Volkov Bratva.”
I hear the words, but they don’t connect. It feels like I’m outside my body watching myself. A passive observer rather than an active participant. I haven’t been awake long enough to handle what is currently happening, so after a long pause, I run a hand down my face and shake my head. “Excuse me?”
“The man you spilled wine on!” my father roars. “Do you remember that?”
