Dom's Ascension Page 2

  He then proceeded to show us where all the ingredients were kept before dropping the bombshell. “You have thirty minutes. If you’re not done by then, throw your work in the trash and see yourself out to make room for the next round of candidates. If, by some chance, you have created something edible, your dish will be presented to management and you will continue on with the interview process.” Frank didn’t even give us a chance to ask questions before starting the timer and returning to his station.

  The other applicants snapped to work while I stood there staring at the time. Thirty minutes to impress. What could I whip up in thirty minutes that would knock their socks off? Especially in a strange kitchen? I washed my hands and put on gloves while considering the recipes in my backpack. Their presence served as more of a security blanket than a necessity since I had most of Mom’s recipes memorized, complete with the revisions I’d made over the years.

  My favorite recipe was one I rarely made because the ingredients were expensive. Linguine di Mare, linguine of the sea, called for a well-seasoned mix of calamari, mussels, scallops, and shrimp in a garlicy white wine sauce. Assuming I could find everything I needed, I could have the rest of the dish put together in the time it took the noodles to boil. Determined to make it happen, I set a pot of water on the stovetop to boil and got to work.

  With four minutes to spare, I handed Frank my offering. He eyeballed it, then me, before grabbing a fork out of the drawer and tasting a sauce-drenched noodle wrapped around a scallop. His eyebrows rose as he chewed. Then, without a single word to me, he turned on his heel and whisked out of the kitchen.

  I stared after him for a moment, wondering whether his sudden disappearance was encouraging or damning before remembering that my station was a mess. Turning to clean, I scanned the kitchen.

  The applicant across the table from me looked as if she was about to burst into tears. She bent to collect her belongings, casting a furtive glance at the large garbage can at the end of the stations before heading out the way we’d entered. Curious, I took my scraps to the trash and peeked in.

  “He took one bite and had her toss the whole thing,” said one of the two male applicants, his own entrée plated in his hands and ready for Frank to evaluate.

  I felt bad for the girl, but happy for myself. At least Frank hadn’t trashed my meal. That would be humiliating, and I probably would have told him off. Wondering what gave Frank the right to be such a bully, I finished scrubbing down my station.

  When Frank returned, he took the man’s dish.

  The buzzer went off.

  Frank looked past us to the second male applicant, who was still working on his creation. “Throw it away and see yourself out,” Frank snapped before disappearing again, plate still in hand.

  The applicant didn’t even bother to clean up after himself before storming out, leaving only two of us.

  We didn’t have to wait long before Frank returned and extended one long finger toward the other remaining applicant. “You, come with me.”

  I didn’t even get the chance to ask him what I should do before Frank disappeared again.

  “Good luck,” I whispered as the other applicant followed Frank.

  “If you’re looking for something to do, there are some onions there that need to be chopped.”

  I turned, looking for the owner of the voice, to find a thin, nice-looking blond man watching me. He couldn’t have been much older than I was, but his steely-blue eyes made him look too intense for his age. He nodded toward the onions in front of him before returning his attention to the chicken he was chopping.

  Wondering if this was some sort of test to see if I was a team player or whatever, I washed my hands again, put on fresh gloves, and scooped up the first onion.

  “The waiting’s the worst,” he said. “I’m Brandon, by the way.”

  “Annetta.” I set the onion down on the board and grabbed a knife. “The other guy is being interviewed, right?”

  It seemed like the obvious answer to his disappearance, but the restaurant management desperately needed to work on its communication.

  “Yes,” Brandon replied, going about his work.

  “Well, that’s reassuring, because I’m kinda picking up an ax murderer vibe from that Frank character.”

  Brandon chuckled.

  Realizing I’d let my thoughts tumble out of my mouth, I shook my head at myself. “Sorry. I probably shouldn’t have said that.”

  He beamed me a smile. “I won’t tell anyone. Besides, Frank’s not too bad. Just intense.”

  Keeping one eye on the door, I finished the onions and started crushing garlic. Frank returned and motioned me back, barely giving me enough time to remove my gloves and grab my bag before he disappeared again. Running to catch up, I turned the corner and stumbled to a stop inside a big office with a long table down the center. Four men sat at the table, watching my ungracious entry. The first stood and introduced himself as Collin Royal, the restaurant manager. The other three offered only first names with no titles.

  “You’re a chef?” the suited man named Dominico asked, eyebrows shooting up his forehead with surprise. Bloodshot eyes watched me from under dark, messy hair as he cradled his head like it hurt. He was attractive, and I would have felt bad for his obvious pain, but both his question and tone rankled. I’d worked extremely hard to earn my title and didn’t appreciate his obvious skepticism. Assuming he was just another pig-headed chauvinist, I raised my chin and said, “Yes sir. They’re letting women in these days.”

  It wasn’t the wisest choice of words for a prospective employee, but if he was half as sexist as his comment suggested, I’d never make it past my first week here anyway. Forget the beautiful restaurant and perfect kitchen. Might as well torch the opportunity now than wait and ruin my work history with an early termination.

  Seated beside Dominico, Mario snickered.

  Dominico’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t back down. “What I meant is that you’re very beautiful. Seems a shame to hide you away in a kitchen.”

  My cheeks burned with both anger and embarrassment. Was he trying to flatter me during my interview? I needed a job and this handsome player seemed insistent on blowing it for me. I’d had enough. “My apologies sir. I didn’t mean to misrepresent, but all the ugly women are currently becoming meter maids and mail clerks.”

  This time Dominico cracked a smile. It lit up his entire face and made my breath catch. No matter how big of a pig he was, the man was downright gorgeous when he smiled.

  Mario leaned forward. “The dish you prepared was excellent. It’s your own recipe?”

  Thankful for the change of topic, I took a breath. “My mother’s, but I altered it.”

  “Perhaps it’s your mother we should be interviewing,” Michael suggested. My attention turned to him, noting the resemblance he shared with Dominico. I’d bet my best spatula the two were related, with not an ounce of manners to spare between them.

  “That would be impossible, since she’s dead.”

  Even though I hadn’t had many interviews, I was pretty certain this one was a flop. Michael clamped his mouth shut and Mario looked away. Nobody apologized for the crass statement, but they did manage to seem uncomfortable if not embarrassed.

  Finally, Collin stepped in. “Legally speaking, you own your mother’s recipes then, correct?”

  “Yes, and I have made my own alterations for each one. I attended the Culinary Academy of Las Vegas and earned—”

  “Yes, we have your résumé,” he said, waving it in the air. “If we need anything else, we’ll call.”

  And with that, I was dismissed. Frank shooed me out a back exit, the door clicking shut behind me.

  “Well, I'm never going to hear from them again. Good riddance, luridi porci,” I muttered as I headed for the bus stop. “Filthy pigs!”

  A group of tourists looked at me like I was crazy, but I didn’t care. I didn’t need Antonio’s. There were lots of opportunities for experience-less cooks li
ke myself. My throat constricted just thinking the lie. I’d almost talked myself into believing I didn’t even want the job when Collin called the next day and shocked me to my core with an offer.

  I probably should have turned him down.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Dominico

  “SHE’S PERFECT,” I said, the minute Frank escorted the beautiful, fiery brunette out of the office.

  Michael snorted. “Perfect for your bedroom, maybe.”

  “No, perfect for the position,” I replied.

  Michael shook his head. “If you weren’t so damn hung over you’d be able to see what a nightmare she’d be. Tell him, Mario.”

  Michael’s words were way too loud. I winced and took another sip of water, hoping it would help. Last night’s rager had sent me stumbling home somewhere around four a.m. I’d completely forgotten about today’s interviews, and still wasn’t sure why I had to be a part of them. Mario, I could see being there, since his family owned a restaurant and he occasionally stuck his head in and pretended to manage it. But me? What did I know about hiring anyone? All I knew was Annetta Porro had a damn fine body, a cute face, and could cook. Checked off enough qualifications for me.

  Mario snickered. “You always did like the feisty ones, Dom. She seems like trouble. And look at this résumé… no restaurant work history. This caliber of establishment can be very stressful. Especially during an event like your sister’s engagement party. What if she can’t hang and screws something up?”

  “If the dinner’s not perfect, the De Luccas will see it as an insult, and we end up in a war with the Durante family without their support,” Michael said, his voice booming in my brain. “Is that worth some piece of ass to you, Dom?”

  Only Italians would claim offense over a subpar meal. Still, the Durantes were the most powerful family in Vegas, and we needed the support of my sister’s future in-laws to take them out and dethrone their don, a sociopath by the name of Maurizio Durante.

  “Because if you need to get laid that bad, I know plenty of broads who’ll—”

  “I get it,” I said cutting Michael off. My head hurt far too much to enjoy the normal verbal sparring with my brother. Michael wasn’t a bad guy, but as the family heir he had a lot riding on his shoulders, and somewhere along the way his responsibilities had leeched away his sense of humor and turned him into the son our old man loved to brag about. As for me, I was just trying not to be too big of a disappointment.

  Mario stood. “I’ll go let Frank know we’re ready for the next applicant.” He headed for the door.

  The rest of the day passed in a blur of unimpressive applicants presenting mediocre dishes, none of which held a fork to the enchanting Annetta Porro and her delicious seafood pasta. Despite her lack of experience, the girl had confidence and personality, which convinced me she could handle the stress of the kitchen. Sure, other applicants had more experience, but Annetta clearly had instincts and fire. I kept reminding myself I shouldn’t care who got the job. I didn’t work at the restaurant. She’d be in the kitchen and I wouldn’t even see her at the dinner. In fact, I’d probably never see her again. But for some reason, I did care, and by the time Frank disappeared to let out the last applicant, I was more certain than ever that she was the chef for the job.

  “We have to make a decision today,” Mario said, thumbing through the stack of résumés.

  “You know how I feel about it,” I said, leaning back and throwing my hands in the air.

  Michael frowned, “We’re not hiring someone just because you’re sprung on her. Think with your brain and put the family first for a second.”

  “Whoa.” That rankled. I sat up and stared him down. “Yes, she’s hot and I would very much like to see what she looks like out of that uniform, but did you taste her dish? It was by far the best. Maybe you should put the family first, and stop blocking her just because I like her.”

  Michael stiffened.

  “Look, you and Father dragged me into this process for some reason, so that’s my opinion. We’re here to hire the best, and she’s it,” I said. “This is all about making an impression and showing the De Luccas how much we value their alliance. You honestly think any of those other dishes will impress them?”

  He glared at me for a moment before turning to the restaurant manager. “What do you think?” he asked.

  The manager—his name was Cain or Connor or something—looked from Michael to me, then down at the résumés. “I-I-I don’t want to step on any toes…”

  Unsolicited, we were helping him interview chefs for the restaurant he managed, and I hadn’t even bothered to learn the guy’s name. And he didn’t want to step on our toes? Such was the power of my family.

  “Then don’t,” Michael said. “Who would you choose if we weren’t here?”

  “Um…” He swallowed and studied the résumé on the table in front of him. “Ms. Porro’s dish was exquisite, but you bring up a valid point about her work history. She has been working at the same place since high school, though, which does show work ethic and loyalty, but working in a kitchen is different.”

  “The girl’s loyal, Mike,” I said. “What’s more important to the family than that?”

  “Of course, I could be a little biased because Linguine di Mare is my favorite dish,” the manager continued, still waffling. “I’ve had it prepared by some of the finest chefs both here and abroad, but Ms. Porro’s version… exquisite, unique, and knowing she owns other such treasures intrigues me greatly. As a businessman and a food enthusiast, I’d love to get my hands on her recipes.”

  “Okay, so she can cook,” Michael reluctantly agreed. “Fine, hire her. But make sure you run a full background check first. If she has any ties to any of the families, I want to know immediately. Bring her in tomorrow and get her trained.”

  The manager grabbed a pen and jotted down notes.

  “Anything to add, Mario?” Michael asked.

  Mario nodded. “Stress test her. It won’t matter how great her dishes are if she can’t handle the pressure. If she fails, all our heads are gonna roll, so be sure you have trained backups, just in case.”

  It seemed unreal that everyone was this keyed up about a goddamn dinner, but that was the way of a rising family. Everything we did had to be thought through and handled correctly, since we needed to prove we were competent and powerful.

  With the decision made, Mario and the manager worked out the details while Michael grabbed the office phone and made a call. With nothing to do, I stacked the applications, setting Annetta’s on top. Then I memorized her phone number.

  When Michael returned to the table he pulled me to the side and let me know one of our warehouses missed their drop and Father wanted us to check it out. And with that it was back to family business as usual.

  ***

  Mario drove my Porsche home from the restaurant and I slid into the passenger’s seat of Michael’s black Acura NSX. With its full leather interior and VTEC engine, the NSX was my brother’s pride and joy. He revved up the engine to life, and we headed south.

  The family owned several warehouses around the city, each one on record under a different fictitious name. It was one of the many ways my old man kept Uncle Sam out of the family coffers. Warehouses were used to process stolen or manufactured goods, and money drops were made one to three times a day, depending on the flow of business. The warehouse in question was currently moving a cocaine shipment, so it should be making money drops at least twice daily. Carlo had called to check on them when they missed the evening drop, and nobody answered.

  The warehouse was located in a brick building behind a lounge on West Spring Mountain Road, between an imported car lot and a Korean restaurant. An empty lot occupied the land behind it, with a low-income housing development beyond that.

  We drove around the block a couple of times, checking out the scene. It was dinner time, and the restaurant’s parking lot was filling up. Six cars were parked in front of the lounge, and traffic at t
he car lot was dismal. Nothing seemed out of place and no one appeared to be too interested in us or the warehouse, so we pulled into the empty lot and scoped out the building. The security lights were on, but while we waited nobody came or left, which was odd.

  I pulled the P229 SIG SAUER from my pocket, checked the magazine, and flicked off the safety. “You ready, Mike?”

  At his nod, we slid out of the car. I slipped my weapon back in my pocket but kept my hand on it. Michael beeped his car alarm on as we crossed the lot, heading for the front door. Listening, I heard no sounds other than traffic and the loud rock music of the lounge.

  “How do you want to handle this?” I asked, deferring to my older brother.

  “Through the front door. Stay by me.”

  Most mafia bosses wouldn’t send their two heirs into a potentially dangerous situation, but our old man made it clear that if we couldn’t survive the life, we didn’t deserve it. I could see his logic, but still, it would have been nice if he’d at least sent us backup.

  The front door stood ajar. We drew our guns and crept in slowly. We’d done this sort of thing over a hundred times, but it still made my heart pound, knowing anyone could be inside waiting to pop us off. We slipped around the corner and pointed our guns, just like we’d been trained to, only there was nobody standing to threaten. Four bullet-ridden bodies were lying on the ground, all of which I recognized.

  We stuck together and searched the rest of the warehouse, finding it clear. The blood of the bodies was congealing, so whoever had made the hit was probably long gone by now. Michael swore and lowered his weapon, picking up the receiver of the phone on the countertop. He dialed and put it to his ear while I wandered around the room. Blood was splattered everywhere, and the place reeked of shit. In addition to the gunshot wounds, chunks of clothing and flesh had been flayed off two of the men.