Page 12 of Wrath
“Who always wins.” Her grandfather tipped his bifocals down to peer at her over the top. “Your babcia.”
Completely ego free, Babcia licked her finger, and drew another card from the center pile. “Good answer.”
“You want some mushrooms?” Ciocia asked from the old vintage stove. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand.
“Sure, sounds good.” Misha glanced around. “Tata here? Or Roka? I need to borrow clothes before heading in to see this infamous chef.”
A squeal came from the hallway, followed by thudding footsteps down the wooden hallway. “About time you came.”
Roksana entered the kitchen with Alek immediately after her. Both siblings began to speak profusely—Roka with her voice, Alek with his hands.
“Whoa! Just let me get dressed and have something to eat first.”
Roksana dragged her into the living room. “You sit there while I get you some clothes. Then we’ll talk. Alek”—Roksana signed as she spoke to their brother—“you go and get the food.”
What was going on? Suspicion coated her insides as she sat down in her father’s old chair. But she had to admit, it was nice receiving attention. She leaned back, eyes running around the room. Two sofas faced a small television on an Elm coffee table in the corner. Tassels dangled from the fabric light-shade hanging from the center of the ceiling. So many memories in that room. Glancing at the doorway that led to the bedrooms, Misha could picture the ghost of herself, standing there when she had been a young girl. Toddler on one hip, a bottle in her hand, Roksana crying for her mama from her room. Her father had been sitting in the same chair Misha now sat in, his gnarled hands slipping on a vodka glass as he sobbed to himself.“I was good to her. Not like other man. Why she leave me…”
“Misha!”
“Yeah?” She jolted out of the past. Roksana had been saying something. Alek walked up from behind with a plate of food.
“Here are your clothes.” Her sister shoved jeans and a tank in her hands. “And, like I was saying about the chef, you need to be prepared before you head in.”
Thirty minutes later, Misha had come to the conclusion that: One, this chef was an extremely grumpy man who spent all their money on luxury food items, and played loud angry music (her father’s complaints); Two, he never spoke—had something wrong with his voice—but was a badass who could cook the shit out of Bigos and Golabki (Alek’s input); Three, he had something to hide. His energy was dark, and he never told them his name so they all referred to him aschef(CiociaVioletta);Oh, and four, he was a babe (Roksana’s input of course).
Armed and prepared with information, she was on her way to the restaurant in her father’s borrowed car shortly after. He would follow with Ciocia which would give her a few minutes to speak with the new chef alone.
Steam still billowed from the sewer grates as she pulled the car into the lot of the food center. A thumping bass vibrated through the walls as she approached the back entrance. When she opened the heavy steel door and pushed inside the kitchen, the hard-rock riffs almost blew her eardrums away. Wow. Tata wasn’t kidding when he said the chef liked to listen to loud music.
Frosted light filtered through the high windows to garnish the stainless steel appliances with ambience. It softened the hard edges of the tiny room. Fresh groceries and supplies were half-sorted on the bench that divided the room. On one side were the ovens, on the other, the cool room and larder. Down the end of the room were the sinks and dishwashers. But no chef.
Her father had told her the chef’s motorcycle was broken, and he usually walked the few blocks to the restaurant, so she wondered how he’d managed to get to and from the markets with the groceries. And where had he been if not at her little room over the garage? When did he get time to change into his uniform? Maybe he stayed with a girlfriend, or maybe he caught a cab. Catching a cab to the farmer’s market was dedication. Most other chefs had just turned up to do their job, and that was it. Some of them rarely did that! Dedication or not, the music was a little on the angry side, so she could see why it bothered her aunt and father. Roksana and Alek, on the other hand, didn’t have a problem with it.
Pulling out her phone, she selected an upbeat song and synced via bluetooth to the internal system. She was feeling rather nostalgic today, always did when entering this place fraught with so many memories—good and bad.
Within seconds, the soft notes of a song from her childhood began to play.
Misha inhaled deeply and let the dill and vinegar scent infuse with her memories, taking her back to her childhood, playing in her grandparents’ vegetable garden and greenhouse. She closed her eyes. The music dimmed until she virtually stood in her memory. White tiger moths and ladybirds flitted past the chamomile flowers. Her mother kneeled in the cucumber patch, snapping off the early shoots for pickling, handing her the too-large cucumbers to eat on the spot. She could almost taste the fresh flavor and feel the juice running down her chin.
A loud bang made her jump, and she opened her eyes. Two deep blue eyes glowered from beneath dark furrowed brows. A straight nose led down to lips twisted in an almost cruel snarl. Dark scruff that, perhaps, would have been shaved if he’d returned home that morning. His sharp jaw accentuated incredible cheekbones. Across the bench, wearing a black muscle shirt and a backwards ball cap was the man from her dreams.
“Wow. You’re real,” she exclaimed. He’d truly been in her bed last night, and she’d truly ran her fingers down his sexy front… wait… had he also truly upended her from the bed?
Ooh.Game on.Her lips curved as a devious response entered her mind. This was going to be fun. Her elevated mood only served to lower his. He collected his phone from the bench, pointed it toward the bluetooth speaker and re-synced, knocking her song from the playlist.
AC/DC came on withDanger. He turned his back on her and returned to unpacking his groceries as if she didn’t exist.
“Open hostility.” Her grin widened, practically buzzing with excitement. “You know”—she moved to stand in front of him—“I can speak in song too.”
She pointed her phone at the speaker and synced. Taylor Swift’sShake it Offblasted on. She punch-danced around the bench, a dare in her eyes, loving every minute of it. Take that grumpy pants!
“Haters gonna hate.” She winked, then cruised back around the bench and helped herself to an apple. She tucked it into her mouth and collected the remainder of the fruit into her arms, shaking her rump all the way to the cold room, pretending she didn’t care what he did next, but inside, anticipation made her body sing like the song.Please play with me, sexy koteczek.
When another hardcore AC/DC beat came on, she almost dropped her apple in delight. He was playing! She finished packing away the items in her hands, and then went to lean her hip on the doorjamb, chewing her apple, eying him with the awareness of a battle opponent. He could be a warrior with that physique. Hard muscles bulged in his arms and rolled in his back as he shifted a heavy fish out of his basket. Nah, he was probably a softy at heart, like Yuri.
The chef knew she watched, but acted as though he didn’t.
And when the throaty lead singer sang the title of his song, she laughed:If you want blood, you’ve got it.
