Page 16 of Broken Deal

When my mind is a swirl of endless thoughts, I come to the restaurant and help. There’s something so peaceful about coming here bright and early in the morning. It’s a great escape from the real world sometimes.

I love getting my hands busy with prepping, washing dishes, or even deep cleaning. I’m not picky. Anything that can get me out of the suit and business mindset for a while. I’m not a chef, nor do I work in the kitchen when everything is up and running, but I enjoy helping the team from time to time, even if it’s frowned upon. As the owner of Lorenzo’s, I manage the business side of things—paying vendors, opening new restaurants, and constantly traveling to all the other locations I have around the world. But I would give it all up in a heartbeat to be in the kitchen, to become a chef. It’s a thought I’ve never voiced.

Ever since I was a kid, I’ve had a passion for cooking. Creating recipes and playing with different combinations that could become the next best thing. But being a part of that world was never an option. I made my bed the day I letmy father dictate my life and guilt-trip me into following his footsteps. I never imagined telling him I wanted to go to culinary school. The last thing I wanted was to be a disappointment. While he wasn’t the most loving father, he knew how to use emotions to his advantage. My father wasn’t a kind man, but he wasn’t bad either. He was just…very business-minded. Very cold and calculated. Being vice president of Vortex consumed his life. So it consumed mine, too, by extension.

There was no escaping my legacy—thatisthe Mancini curse.

Our whole lives, it was always just me and my father. He never remarried after my mother’s death. Instead, his work became the center of his universe. He taught me the ins and outs of how to act, feel, and think like a businessman. While other eight-year-olds would spend their life in summer camps and riding bicycles, I spent mine in business meetings. When Dad got sick, I took over the one thing that has carried the name for generations—the vice presidency of Vortex.

Many people would kill to be in my position. Vortex is one of the most exclusive clubs in the world, with chapters in places like Chicago, New York City, Tokyo, and Rome. Becoming a board member comes with connections, exclusivity, and fame every person dreams of. The reality is, being a part of such an elite group comes with many rules and limitations. For example, being the owner of a successful chain of restaurants was okay, but becoming a chef was not. Having the reputation of gambling and drinking was acceptable—to an extent—because at least it brought attention to Vortex, and that’s all they cared about. We are allowed to act like we own the world because we have the means, the power, and the money to do so. It’s as simple as that.

We are meant for more, meant to rule the world—their words, not mine. Sometimes, I wish they would shove their rules up their fucking asses. I couldn’t care less about fame or money. But this is my life. This is what I promised my father on his deathbed. Even if he wasn’t the most loving or caring, at least he was there. He was the only parent I had, and that’s all that mattered to me at the time. Even now, years after his death, the thought of walking away from everything he wanted me to do feels wrong.

These thoughts have been drowning me lately. Thoughts I don’t tell anyone, because no one will understand the pressure I put on myself. So I use other methods of escape—the partying, the gambling, the casual sex. But those have become less frequent lately, since they no longer offer the kind of relief they once did.

Lost in thought, I cut the ripe, red tomato with more force than needed, the slice ending up half an inch thicker than it should be. I know I shouldn’t be handling produce right now, especially with my thoughts haunting me these past few days, but keeping my hands busy is the only thing giving me a sliver of peace.

My dinner with Sophia is tonight, which has me slightly on edge. Every time I close my eyes, I’m met with those same icy blue eyes of hers. I knew I was the obsessive type, but this is becoming a problem. Vortex is another source of my frustration, taking a lot of my time and energy. You would think such a prestigious, exclusive place would run smoothly in itself, but the constant pointless meetings are becoming the bane of my existence.

I drop the knife on the cutting board and clean the sweat prickling down my forehead with my forearm then remove my gloves as a tired, exasperated sigh escapes my lips.

“All good, boss?” Mikhael, the head chef, asks.

That’s the million-dollar question lately. I’m not sure what I am. I can only think of one word—tired.

Tired of living the business-minded lifestyle but not doing anything about it because this is the promise I made to my father. I’m fulfilling my destiny. Doing what he wished for me. And who am I to deny the one thing he wanted? He put a roof over my head. He fed me. And for that, I will always be grateful and continue his legacy. Even when this world tires me. Even when I want to shout from the rooftop “Fuck you all” and walk away.

Before I can reply, I hear footsteps approaching the kitchen. I glance over my shoulder to see who it is, and when I catch sight of Damian’s expression, I know I’m in for a world of pain.

“Ah, cugino.?1 What can I help you with?” I drawl.

Damian adjusts his cufflinks without replying. I’ve known him long enough to sense he’s about to tear me a new one—I just don’t know what for this time.

After a few beats, Damian tilts his head toward the empty restaurant. “A word?”

I let out a sigh and nod. Walking out of the kitchen, I step behind the bar to take two whiskey glasses and serve two fingers worth of the sweet and smoky golden liquid. I turn around and slide a glass to Damian.

He looks at me with a bored expression as he takes a seat in one of the bar chairs. “It’s not even nine in the morning.”

I shrug, gulping the whiskey in one swig. “It has to be five o’clock somewhere,” I reply, grabbing his glass.

He follows my movement with his eyes, shaking his head.

“No point in wasting it,” I say beforedrinking again.

He thins his lips and scrubs his face. “I came here to ask you a question.”

“You could have called.”

“I have the suspicion you would have lied, so I prefer to have this conversation in person.” His tone is sharp and to the point. “How do you know Sophia?”

“Who?” I ask nonchalantly, even though my heart rate spiked at the mention of her.

“If you want to act stupid, fine by me,” he replies with an amusing tone that doesn’t reach his green eyes. “Sophia. My fiancée’schildhood best friend.”

“Oh, her.” I scrub my stubble, pondering. “I’ve met her around. Can’t remember where.”

Damian folds his arms across his chest and leans back on his chair. “You slept with her, didn’t you?”

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