Chapter One
Elisabet
San Francisco.
A fresh start.
My heart still aches. It still remembers what happened, but it’s not as bad as it was. My mind slips to the past every now and then. It recalls him, but I force myself to shove the memories into a little box, never to see the light of day again.
When I stepped off the plane two weeks ago, I wasn’t sure if I was going to make this work. Scrap that, I knew it was going to happen for me.
I’ve always been self-reliant. Never had anyone else to look after me. Most men are too afraid of me to even take me out for a drink, let alone want to work for me. I’m known as the bitch of the kitchen. That’s fine by me. Most of my chefs have walked out because they say I’m too hard on them. What’s the point in making food you don’t love? That’s what my mother used to say.
I’ve been searching high and low for space to open the next restaurant in the chain of eateries which is owned by me. Rossi Food & Wine started as an idea. I put pen to paper almost two years ago, and now I’m about to purchase property for my fifth store.
When my mother passed away after my eighteenth birthday, I made the choice that changed my life. I packed my bags and moved to America. When I arrived, I worked bussing tables at a small pizzeria in New York. As time passed, I learned English, and along with it, how to run a business.
The roads are busy today as I make my way through the congested streets toward the building my best friend told me about. Louisa followed not long after I told her how amazing America was. Since she studied in England, language was no barrier, and she quickly made a name for herself in the magazine industry. Working for a large publishing company, she now edits one of the more well-known monthlies.
Pulling up to the empty building, I turn off the engine and exit the car. I lift my shades and take in the beautiful architecture of the structure in question. The paint is peeling, there’s a lot of work to be done on the windows, but I can see myself turning this into a beautiful place for people to visit with friends or family.
I find myself smiling at the thought. Excitement tumbles in my stomach as I make my way around to the back of the building to take a look at the space. It’s all locked up, but I have a look around at the parking allocation. There are two other stores beside it, a pharmacy as well as a small vegetable grocer. Perfect.
Across the road is an apartment block which looks to be upmarket and quiet. I’m smiling by the time I get back into the car. The large sign on the door tells me the property agent is Landon Stone. I’ve heard of the infamous Mr. Stone. A man-whore who beds more women on a weekly basis than I serve meals to my patrons.
He’s never been seen without a woman on his arm at any event he attends. I hate men like that. Those who think they’re God’s gift to women, and deep down they’re just insecure little boys trying to be adults. The operative word is trying.
Sighing, I tap out his number and hit “dial”. If I have to deal with him for a couple of weeks to get this deal done and dusted, I can. This is purely business, I tell myself as I listen to the ringing on the line.
“Stone International, how may I direct your call?” A sweet, sultry tone comes from the other end of the line, and I wonder if she’s fucking the boss. Shaking my head, I try to push the images of Landon with a woman out of my head.
“I’d like to set up an appointment with Mr. Stone. It’s about the property on Chestnut Street,” I inform her, watching a couple walk their dog down toward the marina. My heart jolts for a moment as a memory comes unbidden to my mind, but as always, I push it back.
“Yes, he can see you tomorrow at ten. Would that work for you, Miss…” she leaves the sentence open enough for me to give her my name.
“Elisabet Rossi.”
“Ms. Rossi, I have you penciled in at ten in the morning. Can I get your contact number in the event of a reschedule?” I tell her my cell phone number before hanging up. I’m excited to get the ball rolling. The sooner I can open a Rossi’s here, the better. I vowed never to go back to New York after what happened, and having a manager looking after my restaurant there is the perfect excuse not to return.
Tomorrow, all I have to do is persuade Mr. Stone to sell me this building, and I’ll be back on my feet in no time. Starting the engine, I head out toward the hotel I’ve booked for the next two months. I’ve given myself enough time to figure out what I’m going to do so I don’t have to return to New York anytime soon.
The streets are familiar to me as I make my way through the city. I spent time in San Francisco when I was still happy. When my life was heading in one direction, but now, as I weave through the traffic, I realize I’m on a whole new path. Something other than this darkness that’s consumed my mind.
The life I walked away from was something I never wanted. Didn’t need it at all. I left everything back in a house that cost a small fortune. I didn’t need the things that sat glistening on tables and countertops bought with money that came from drugs, from weapons.
Sighing, I pull up to the valet of the hotel, and when I exit the car, a young man takes the keys, and I head into the lobby. A few people mill around, mostly tourists. It’s a plush, modern building with beautiful Italian tiles and wallpaper that remind me of the walls of the Vatican. Strangely, I feel at home. Not because of my heritage, but because I miss being in the safety of the cathedral. The candles glowing dimly in the vast space. A soft humming of hymns being sung.
I’ve never been religious. No. Even though I was brought up that way, I found myself on a different path. It was my decision. And even though Mama and Papa didn’t agree, they still loved and accepted my choice, I knew I’d hurt them when I walked away from the family rules I refused to live under.
When my mother passed away, all I remember was the ache in my chest. It was felt so deep down I was breathless in my grief. I spent months in her kitchen, cooking, focusing on anything other than the fact that I’d laid her to rest.
My passion for food stemmed from there, and I knew I had to do something other than wallow in grief. Pushing through that barrier wasn’t easy, to see light when all I was used to was darkness. Slowly, each day became less painful, and even though nothing can ease the ache in my chest, I have a life now that I’m proud of.
A small smile plays on my lips as I think about the future. Once I have the building in my name, I can renovate it and put my stamp on it. Happiness thrums through my body, tingling with anticipation of seeing another derelict building come to life with laughter and smells of delicious food.