Page 1 of The Bratva King's Kidnapped Bride

Chapter 1 - Katie

In the shadows of the tall white columns, I stared at the discreet, gold-framed sign beside the carved wooden doors. It was well before dinner, but people were already inside, bustling frantically to get everything ready for the dinner rush. Those who dined there loved this restaurant because the food was divine, the service was excellent, and the decor was old-world elegant, dimly lit, and welcoming.

The people who worked there? That was a bit of another story. I used to be one of those people. Started right after high school and worked my way up to sous chef. Everyone constantly told me that it was a notable feat to have achieved by twenty-one, and I loved the work.

So, of course, I quit.

It seemed like I had a good reason at the time, but there I was, pacing anxiously outside, working up the nerve to go in and grovel for my job back.

The owner and head chef made the place a living hell for all his employees, stingy with compliments and generous with complaints. You’d have thought he was once an army general, but no, he started out at the bottom just like me—with the benefit of a culinary degree, something that had always been a dream of mine but was well out of my reach.

Not that it affected my ability to create a recipe. Customers raved about my gourmet lunch boxes, a side hustle I developed two years ago. Seeing someone’s excited face when I turned up at their upscale office building with my daily offerings was worth every moment of my spare time.

My regulars gladly paid the exorbitant amounts I charged, and while it would have been nice to turn more of a profit off the lunches, the whole point was the high-quality ingredients I insisted on using. There was no way anyone could compare my meals with something from a fast-food place. If I turned up one day with anything less in an attempt to make more money, I’d have lost most of my loyal customers.

And I had tons of them after putting in those two years of grueling work. In fact, one was so impressed that she booked me to cater a big party she was hosting at her Beverly Hills home. Since she was a top entertainment lawyer, her huge estate crawled with other industry bigwigs, even a few movie stars and a famous rapper. I was so happy after hearing all the accolades that night that I cried all the way home. Happy, joyous tears because that was the break I yearned for.

After that, I set up a website for my newly launched catering business. I put cute, eye-catching advertisements in all my lunchboxes to let people know I was available to create entire meals, no party too big or small. Except for the occasional order of a dozen lunch boxes for someone’s office birthday party, I never got so much as a single call. But I was still convinced my business was on its way to the big leagues of catering if I kept hustling. I fell asleep every night after that one Hollywood party, and I had visions of my own cookbook topping the charts someday in the near future.

A few evenings after my big break, during my shift at the restaurant, my sauce was deemed to have too much oregano. While I could have whipped up a new batch in the amount of time my boss berated me, he thought it was a better use of time to scream at the top of his lungs and toss a ladle in my direction instead. I could feel the heavy stainless steel spoon whizz past me, rustling my hair out of my hat. Everyone else in the kitchen was silent, trying not to draw his ire to themselves. I’d been yelled at so many times it barely registered anymore, but never once had Chef Danello attempted to hit me with something. It was the final straw.

The hostess ran after me, trying to get me to stay. Did I want to throw away all the years I’d worked there because he was in a worse mood than usual? It wasn’t like everyone there hadn’t had some sort of utensil thrown at them, right?

Not me. I had my lunch box side gig and my up-and-coming catering company. I didn’t need that kind of abuse.

That was two months ago when I had a big pile of money in the bank from the industry party job. My heart was full of dreams, and my hands were ready to prepare all the new meals for jobs I was sure would come rolling in.

But Los Angeles was full of hopefuls and even more full of established, more prominent names. No more big jobs rolled in, not even any little ones, and now the balance in my bank account was back to its sad, meager amount and quickly dwindling. My lunch box business was still thriving, but it wasn’t nearly enough to make ends meet unless I started cutting corners on ingredients.

There was a rustle behind the restaurant’s front doors and I jumped behind a pillar before one of the line cooks popped out to set up the board announcing what the special would be for that night. I only relaxed when he went back inside.

Why was I cowering like I did something wrong? And was I really going to beg that tyrant for my job back? I stayed in touch with my old friends who still worked there and they all assured me the kitchen didn’t run nearly as smoothly without me. They were certain Chef Danello would have me back. I still had pride, though, even if it had taken a beating the last two months. It was still there, weakly telling me not to give up on my dream. Not to apologize when I did nothing wrong, and never, ever to beg.

I turned away, still anxious about money but feeling a tiny bit stronger. When I was in my car, parked half a block away and out of sight, my phone rang. It was my younger sister, Jenna, so of course I picked up. She was all the way on the other side of the country, thriving at the expensive, out-of-state college she worked so hard to get into. I missed her desperately and needed to hear her cheery voice.

“I got a job offer,” she said excitedly.

“Oh my gosh, that’s great.” It really was, since even though the internship she was going for barely paid anything, it was still a help, especially right now when I was barely scraping by getting her tuition in on time. I liked her to have spending money too, so she could have the full college experience and go out with her new friends. And it would look great on her resumé when she eventually graduated. “I knew Professor Ludwig would choose you, and the hours shouldn’t cut into your study time too much.”

Jenna sighed. “It’s not the internship. They picked a senior, just like I expected. But one of my friends works at this boutique. The clothes are amazing, and all the jewelry is designed by local artists and—”

“Wait,” I said, interrupting. “You want to get a job off campus? Like a real job?”

“Yes. And the best part is that they pay commission. Everything there is crazy expensive, so I could really rake it in.”

“But we agreed.”

Another sigh. “I’m not having as much trouble keeping up as during the first quarter. It’s just twenty hours a week. Two full days on the weekend and one evening.”

Acting like a hard ass was one of the most challenging parts of losing our parents when I was sixteen, and Jenna was fourteen, just starting high school. Our Aunt Marjorie helped us out a lot, and that was why we got to stay together and not end up in the foster system. But right as I was turning eighteen, Aunt Marjorie was diagnosed with cancer. She assured us it was treatable, but she wanted to return to Florida, where she was more comfortable with her doctors. Aunt Marjorie had been in remission for two years now, and since she left, it was just me and Jenna. I had to become the adult in the house.

“You need that time for tutoring, and you know you need that weekend time to catch up. It was your choice to take an extra class this semester. You’re going to be pissed at yourself if you get behind again.”

Jenna made another plea, trying to make me see her side. She was just overwhelmed since it was her first year, but she had a rhythm now.

“Then you need to keep the rhythm,” I said. “Don’t take the job. You’ll regret it. I already think you’re going to regret your decision to stay and take classes during the summer. It’s great that you’re being ambitious, but it’s important not to get in over your head again. If you fail another class, we’ll have to pay for you to retake it.”

“See, that’s exactly why I want the job,” she told me. “Because everything boils down to money.”

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