Page 1 of Possessive Greek Chef

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CHECKING THE COMPETITION

ATTICUS

“áspro páto!”

“Ta léme!”

“Stin ygeiá mas!”

“Miláte Angliká?”

“Mia býra parakaló.”

The nightlife in Athens has changed since I opened my restaurant in 2010. Back then, the country hadn’t gone bankrupt and wasn’t incentivizing anything and everything that would boost the tourism industry. As a then-thirty-year-old chef, I opened the only five-star restaurant in the city. Now, it seems like I have competition popping up on every corner. Not all of them good but competition nonetheless.

For twelve years, I’ve worked my fingers to the bone ensuring that my customer’s dining experience is as close to perfect as possible. Even now, on a rare night off, I find myself out on a secret mission to check out the competition.

Lucas Bedros has been making waves in the fine dining sector with his new self-named joint located between my place and the President Hotel. Thinking about it leaves a sour taste in my mouth. He’s so cocky he thinks he can attract a crowd just by putting his celebrity chef name on the door, but he’s just an overinflated line cook. I’ve heard that he cuts corners on quality, and I want to find out for myself. I have zero respect for people who do that.

I watch the expressions on the diner’s faces as their dishes arrive and they take their first bites. No one has sent their meal back to the kitchen, but they don’t appear very impressed with the flavor either. Like my place, Bedros is a fusion restaurant. I order the Moussaka to start and it arrives reheated and dry.

Disgusting. How does he expect to produce quality French and Italian cuisine when he can’t even serve a traditional Greek eggplant right? My eighty-year-old grandmother can do better and she’s blind.

Pushing the plate to the side, I sip my martini and zone in on the kitchen. There’s some sort of scuffle going on inside that gets louder each time a server opens the doors. A male, whom I assume is Bedros, is shouting obscenities and a quieter female voice is trying to respond. Of course, this pompous, little prick would yell at a woman. Nothing makes my blood boil more than a man who disrespects women. Might as well just announce to the world that your dick doesn’t work.

The doors fly open and the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen rushes out. Too beautiful and young to be working in this hellhole and watching her makes my heart drum hard enough to hurt. But it’s more than just her face. I feel something primal course through my veins. The need to take her. Make her mine. Coat her walls with my seed.

Who is she?

The entire dining room looks on as Bedros waddles out behind her, shaking a spatula at her and screaming at the top of his lungs.

“I don’t care what ghetto you crawled out of, you don’t get to second guess my orders. Who do you think you are? This is my fucking place and my name is on the door. When your broke ass has my kind of success, you can call the shots. Until then, shut your whore mouth!” Bedros screams and my attention turns to the petite beauty he’s verbally assaulting.

Acid spears up into my chest, blood roaring in my ears. Who the fuck does he think he is talking to her like that?

The girl has tears in her eyes and looks like a trapped animal under the drama-hungry eyes of a packed restaurant. Bedros steps forward and grabs her by the arm. She tries to pull away and his fat, sausage fingers tighten on her white coat.

That’s it. That’s the last straw for me. She needs to be saved from this sweaty attention hog. I leap from my seat, flipping the round table as I do. My tableware crashes to the floor, capturing the attention of Bedros and the woman.

“What the hell is this? Security? Throw this guy out on his ass!” Bedros cries.

His beady little eyes widen as he sees that I’m rushing straight toward him. I wrap my big hand around his fat throat and lift him off his feet. Pushing him backward, I shove him through the kitchen doors and toss him against the freezer. He lets out a grunt and grabs his chest, but that’s not going to stop me. I grab his sweaty forehead and bounce his head off the stainless steel door until his eyes roll back in his head.

“You’re going to apologize to her, you little prick,” I growl.

The head trauma may have made him even more stupid because he still doesn’t comprehend the severity of the issue. He shakes his head and mumbles, “Fuck you.”

“Okay,” I say and grab his shoulders. Spinning him around, I shove him face-first into a sink filled with greasy pans and dishwater. I hold him under as he thrashes and shakes. When the bubbles from his breathing slow, I pick him back up. “Are you ready to apologize yet?”

Red-faced and soaking wet, he cries, “You’re gonna be sorry,” so I send him snorkeling again.

I can do this all night, motherfucker.

I pull him out and spin him around. I place my hands around his neck and squeeze.

“Apologize now or they might be charging me with murder,” I snarl.

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