Page 203 of Sweet Dominion

Dima—with his sharp intellect— positioned as Moni's advisor?

No.

The possibility sent a slow-moving chill down my spine.

If Dima had my Mountain Mistress’s ear, then he could subtly shape decisions in the East by swaying Moni's views—views that eventually would be intertwined with my own desires.

Dima was more strategic and at times wiser than my father. He had a way of seeing things, of understanding the undercurrents of power and the shifting sands of loyalty, which was invaluable but also, in some ways, threatening.

I could imagine Dima, with his calm demeanor, advising Moni on the complexities of the syndicate's politics. He might lean towards more conservative strategies, or push for alignments that I found less favorable, using his proximity to Moni to influence her—and through her—influence me.

I tensed.

“Come on, Lei.” Moni gestured in the other direction. “Let’s see who is going to win.”

Reluctantly, I followed her gaze back to the table.

Dima kept the microphone a few inches from his mouth.

His eyes were unreadable.

“First off,” Dima kept his voice smooth and casual, “I just want to say, I had a great time judging today. And honestly, I’m going to put in an official request to hire whoever wins—or loses—to be Barbara Whiskers’ personal chef.”

The crowd burst into laughter and I glanced over at Barbara Whiskers. The cat, who had been battling Dima’s pen, was now knocked out on the table, curled up in a ball and completely indifferent to the outcome of this competition.

Dima shook his head and chuckled. “In all seriousness, I’ve had some of the best food of my life today. Chef Foo, Banks—both of you knocked it out of the park.”

Several people clapped.

“Every dish was incredible and I think I speak for everyone here when I say you’vebothset a new standard for what a Grill Off should be.”

Another applause rang out from the crowd and I found myself grinning as I watched the two chefs on stage.

They both looked a little nervous now, that anticipation bubbled up.

Chef Foo straightened his jacket.

Banks now had his arm off Chef Foo’s shoulder and was shifting from one foot to the other. For once, his swagger was dialed down a bit, though he still wore a playful grin.

I leaned back in my chair, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction.

This whole cookout, this competition, had been a ridiculous idea, but somehow, it had turned into one of the best days I’d had in a long time.

It wasn’t just about the food or the competition—it was the feeling of everyone coming together, having fun, letting loose.

I made a mental note to remember that even in the chaos of my responsibilities as Mountain Master, moments like this mattered too.

Dima paused and then, with a playful glint in his eye, he looked right at me. “Before I announce the winner, I’d like to make an official request with our Mountain Master.”

What’s this?

I raised my eyebrows.

Dima gestured toward me. “I think we should make this ayearlyevent—a cookout and Grill Off. What do you all think?”

Oh wait.

The crowd erupted into cheers, people banging on tables, clapping, and chanting. Green and blue. It didn’t matter the color.

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