Satin Sinner - A Mafia Romance

"On my wedding day. Today." She winces. "Fuck. I'm so sorry. That's rough." My eyes flit back to the rectangular windows. Anton is sitting in the same spot he's been in all night. He's got one leg cocked at an angle over his other knee, arms spread out over the white cushioned sofa. Only a certain kind of man can look quite so relaxed and on guard at the same time. Like he's fully aware that the entire world is at his fingertips for the taking. "You deserve a medal for being here at all," the blonde says. But what she really means is, What's wrong with you? She's looking at me as though I have some sort of terminal illness. "Not really. Cooking always calms me down. I feel positively peaceful right now." I notice the two women exchange a look, but their opinions barely touch me. No one can. I'm marooned on a desert island, emotionally-speaking. Or at least, I'd like to be. Probably why I've been ignoring my phone since the moment I set foot on The Medusa. It's resting on the corner of the spice shelf over the stove. I'm vaguely aware of the display light flashing with new notifications. But I have no interest in checking any of them. "I'm changing the main course up a bit," I announce, taking advantage of their shock. "We're still going to use the fish, but I'm going to pan fry instead of sous vide. We don't have the time to waste." "Whatever you want, chef." "One more thing," I say, unable to avoid it any longer. "Can you repeat your names for me again?" "Molly," the brunette says. "Lisa," answers the blonde. Neither woman seems to take offense, thankfully. I nod. "Lisa, I'm going to need you to watch the onions. Tell me when they turn golden brown. Molly, keep an eye on the sauce while I pinbone the fish." I leave them to their tasks and move around the kitchen, checking to make sure all three courses are moving along. I was told dinner needed to be served at eight o'clock and we're already at half past seven, so I need to keep things moving. Two of the other staff look up at me with interest-and some wariness mixed in, too-when I step over to their station. "Can you chop those scallions a little finer, please?" I ask the skinny bald one. "Yes, chef." "Andy, right?" I check. "Anders." "Right, sorry. Anders." He points at the other man. "And this is Cory." I nod towards the plump, older man. He seems to prefer quiet while cooking. I'm of the same mind. "Cory," I say, "I've decided to make penne instead of ravioli. But don't worry, we're going to use the same dough." He nods deferentially and opens his mouth to say something when we hear footsteps on the gleaming mahogany stairs that lead down to the kitchen. Yulian stoops down and peers through the door. His eyes find me instantly. "Chef Jessa, you're wanted on the deck." I blink in surprise. "Me?" He nods. "You." I want to refuse. There's too much to do and there's a lot of money on the line. But I don't want to disappoint anyone, either. Least of all Anton. Something tells me he's not the kind of guy who likes being disappointed. I move over to the stove and lift the lid on the stock pot. Steam pours out, followed by the delicious, brothy smell of the soup. I turn down the fire and look at Molly. "Leave it to settle for ten minutes then ladle out two spoons into each soup bowl. Once those onions have caramelized, sprinkle one tablespoon over each of the soups. Got it?" "Got it, chef," she says with a crisp nod. But her eyes keep drifting to Yulian. I don't bother removing my chef's whites as I head upstairs behind Yulian. "Was there something wrong with the canapes?" I ask, feeling suddenly nervous. I'd meant to only send up two different kinds of canapes, but I ended up making four. There was so much fresh seafood and so many choices. I have a tendency to overdo it. Maybe I bit off more than I could chew and compromised the quality. "The canapes?" Yulian asks, throwing an amused look over his shoulder. "Hardly. Those were the best damn things I've ever put in my mouth." "Oh. Right. Thanks." Feeling slightly more confident after that brazen praise, I let him lead me through a darkened nook before we finally resurface. The ocean looks eerily calm as I step up into the fresh air. A flat plane of dark glass. But it's not enough to hold my attention when I set eyes on Anton. He's leaning against the railing of the yacht now, holding a thin flute of champagne. "Thanks, Yulian," Anton says, giving his brother a dismissive nod. "That'll be all." "I'll be below deck if you need anything," Yulian says before immediately disappearing. I look around, taking note of the fact that we seem to be alone. Then I remember the kitchen windows and look back. Molly and Lisa are both openly staring at me through the slim pane of glass like we're on a reality TV show. When I turn back to Anton, he gives me a lazy smile and starts walking around to the other side of the yacht, away from the curious eyes that follow us. "You have admirers below deck," I tell him, mostly to break the silence. "Does that include you?" I blink. Cat's got my tongue, apparently. He saves me by laughing. "Your canapes were extraordinary, Jessa," he says. "The best I've ever eaten." Warmth floods through my body instantly. "Thank you," I mumble, eyes downcast. "Your talents are wasted doing corporate catering and one-time gigs. You should be the head chef of your own restaurant." I rest my hand against the cool metal railing. "That's the dream. But it's not a realistic one, unfortunately." "Money problems?" "Isn't it always?" "For some," he says with a shrug of his shoulders. "Less so for others." Then he offers me the flute of champagne in his hand. "Have a sip." "Oh, it's fine, I-" "Have a sip, Jessa." It's not a question. Like I'm hypnotized-and hell, maybe I am-I find myself accepting the glass and placing my lips against the exact same spot his had rested only a few seconds ago. I tilt it back. The rich liquid slides down my throat like silk. "Whoa," I breathe, staring at the glass in my hand. "1959 Dom Perignon. Good, isn't it?" I nearly choke on my next breath. It takes everything I have not to bleat out, You must be fucking joking. Because if I remember my wines course from culinary school correctly, a 1959 Dom Perignon champagne runs a casual forty-something grand per bottle. Who the hell is this guy? Swallowing back my million and one questions, I just squeak, "Yeah. Incredible." He nods. It seems like he blinks less than most normal humans. I find myself wishing he'd do it more, if only to give me a break from the piercing intensity of his stormy gray eyes. "It gets claustrophobic down there sometimes," he remarks. "I thought you might need a little breather." "Do you do that for everyone on your payroll?" I ask. "Just the ones that interest me." "Hate to disappoint, but I'm not that interesting," I say, trying to cover my blush with another sip of the champagne.