Unprotected with the Mob Boss: A Dark Mafia Romance (Alekseiev Bratva) Fox, Nicole (best chinese ebook reader .TXT) š
Book online Ā«Unprotected with the Mob Boss: A Dark Mafia Romance (Alekseiev Bratva) Fox, Nicole (best chinese ebook reader .TXT) šĀ». Author Fox, Nicole
I physically bite my tongue and then take a deep breath. āIf youād like me to remake anything for you or bring out a complimentary dessert, Iām happy to do that. If not, I apologize for the issues and hope you will not hold it against us. Weād love to have you again.ā
Lies. Lies. Lies. Iām smiling and being friendly the way I was taught in culinary school. I actually took a class on dealing with customers, and this man is being even more outrageous than the overexaggerated angry customer played by my professor.
āWhy would I want more food from you if the things you already sent out were terrible?ā He snorts and shakes his head. āI see you do not have a ring on. That is no surprise. Men like a woman who can cook. Men donāt care if you know your way around a professional kitchen if you donāt know your way around a dinner plate.ā
The older gentleman is speaking, but I hear my fatherās words in my head. You do not need to go to culinary school to find a husband, Eve. Your aunties can teach you to cook good food for your man.
My entire life has been preparation for finding a husband. The validity of every hobby is judged by whether it will fetch me a suitor or not. My father wants me to be happy, but he mostly wants me to be married. Single, Iām a disappointment. Married, Iām a vessel for future Furino mafia members.
Years of anger and resentment begin to bubble and hiss inside of me until Iām boiling. My hands are shaking, and I can feel adrenaline pulsing through me, lighting every inch of me on fire. This time, I donāt bite my tongue.
āIād rather die alone than spent another minute near a man like you,ā I spit, stepping forward and laying my palms flat on the table. āThe fact that you ate all of the food you apparently hated shows you are a pig in more ways than one.ā
In the back of my mind, I recognize that my voice is echoing around the restaurant and the chatter in the rest of the room has gone quiet, but blood is whirring in my ears, and I canāt stop. Iāve stayed quiet and docile for too long. Now, it is my turn to speak my mind.
āYou and your friends may be wealthy and respected, but I see you for what you areāspineless, cowardly assholes who are so insecure they have to take their rage out on everybody else.ā
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 manās 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 Iām 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 Iām 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 wonāt 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. Iāve lost touch with everyone since I started culinary school. There hasnāt been time for friends.
This is probably the kind of situation where most girls would turn to their moms, but she hasnāt been in the picture since I was six years old. Even if I had her number, I wouldnāt call her. Dad hasnāt 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.
āTake it off, baby!ā
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
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