Chapter 8

“You’re late,” Javier said as Cecily walked into the kitchen.

“I know, Javier. I’m sorry.”

“Punctuality is important, Cecily.”

She turned a mutinous expression toward him and said, enunciating every syllable, “I apologize for being late. It shouldn’t happen again.”

“You mean it will not happen again.”

“Things come up, Javier. Life’s not always neat and tidy. I cannot promise never to be late again.”

He harrumphed and gestured to the kitchen boy, her assistant. “Salvador, get started on the soup. It must simmer for a long time before it is ready to serve.”

“Sí, Señor de la Vieda,” the young man replied.

“Thanks, Sal,” Cecily said as she tied on her apron and covered her hair with a bandana. “Javier, what did you decide will be today’s special?”

“Huitlacoche, corn, and squash blossom crepes with poblano sauce,” her boss answered, eyes glittering with unholy glee.

“Do we even have squash blossoms?” she asked.

“We got them in just this morning.”

“Dandy,” she muttered, disturbed by that development. She’d never cooked squash blossoms before. “What the hell is huitlacoche?”

Salvador cast her a sneering glance, but said nothing.

“Sal, can you keep things going for a few minutes. I need to brush up on my Mexican cuisine.”

“Sí, señorita.”

“Thanks.” She pulled her table from her oversized purse and retreated to Javier’s office where she could connect to the wireless internet connection the restaurant next door offered its. She searched on Mexican crepes and finally found what she wanted. She watched a video of the dish being prepared twice before she felt confident that she could replicate the process. But the huitlacoche puzzled her, so she looked that up separately. When she found huitlacoche, her Midwestern heart recoiled in horror.

“Dear God, he wants me to cook corn smut and feed it to people,” she muttered in disbelief. She shook her head. “No. No, I won’t do it.”

Turning off her tablet, she headed for the pantry and rummaged about to find porcini mushrooms. Those she would cook in lieu of corn smut.

She carried out the box of mushrooms and Salvador raised an inquiring eyebrow at her.

“That is not huitlacoche,” he pointed out.

“I know.”

“I know where to get some.”

“Don’t bother. We’ll use these and add a queso fresco, since we don’t have any black truffles. It’ll be our own variation on the dish.”

His lip curled at the stupid gringa who would ruin a beautiful, celebratory dish. She met his contempt with her own cold glare. He shrugged and returned his attention to the soup.

She fired up the grill and checked to make sure that everything for the day’s menu was ready to hand. She tasted the soup and added some salt, lime juice, and smidgen more chipotle pepper. After stirring, she tasted it again and nodded. That was better. Then the orders started pouring in and she had little time to think about anything other than cooking food and calling for service.

About halfway through the evening, Javier stormed into the kitchen. “You have ruined the crepes!”

Unwilling to admit to ruining anything, Cecily stood her ground and barked back at him, “Has anyone complained?”

“No,” he admitted. “But these are not made with huitlacoche.

“I am not feeding people anything that’s not good enough to feed livestock.”

“You have ruined my wife’s most precious recipe,” he snapped. “Get out of my kitchen.”

Cecily swallowed a lump of fear, surprised at the man’s virulent anger. After a moment of stunned silence, she carefully untying her apron.

“I should have known better than to hire a gringa,” the old man muttered.

“I’m sorry you think that poorly of me,” she said quietly. She looked over her shoulder and said, “Sal, the kitchen’s all yours now.”

Salvador smiled with triumphant satisfaction. Cecily shook her head as she walked outside. He wasn’t good enough to carry the kitchen. He had the potential to learn, but, she feared, not the passion.

Oh, well, it wasn’t her problem. She pulled her phone from her purse and dialed.

“Da?”

“Pyotr, can you pick me up?” She sniffled.

“What is wrong, vozlyublennaya?”

“I got fired.”

“Find a safe place to sit. I will come for you.”

She walked half a block away to another restaurant and sat on a bench outside the door. Taking out her phone, she texted her location to Pyotr. True to his word, he arrived shortly thereafter, asking the taxi driver to wait for a moment. With long strides, he approached the bench and squatted in front of her. Taking her hands in his, he said, “Let’s go back to the hotel and you will tell me about it.”

She nodded and his heart twisted to see her so despondent. He rose to his feet, knees creaking with protest, and she rose with him. They walked back to the taxi which returned them directly to the hotel.

“Take a shower and put on something comfortable,” he instructed her. “I will order supper and we will talk.”

She nodded again and obeyed. She did not see his pensive expression as she walked to the bathroom. Pyotr rubbed his knuckles and wondered if he had it in him to beat up an old man for wrecking his Cecily. He hated to see her so defeated.

“So, tell me what happened,” he said when she rejoined him, smelling fresh and lightly flowery from her shower. He pulled her onto his lap and she nestled there in silence for a moment before speaking.

“I was late to work, about half an hour, and Javier just went off the deep end. He’s been kind of weird lately, like the more business the restaurant gets, the unhappier he gets.”

“I think he must resent that the restaurant’s success depends upon your skill.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. But his temper’s been uncertain lately, that’s for sure. Anyway, Sal—he’s the junior cook and all-around assistant—was finishing up kitchen prep and he…” She shuddered.

“What did he do?”

“He didn’t actually do anything, but the looks he gave me were just evil. He was glad to see me be thrown out.”

“All right, you arrived late, Javier was upset, and Sal gave you dirty looks. That doesn’t sound like an excuse to fire you.”

She sighed. “Javier has a daily special. Tonight, he wanted me to make these Mexican crepes with corn smut. I—I just couldn’t do it. I mean, I come from a rural community. We throw away corn as unfit for livestock that is covered with fungus like that. We sure as hell don’t eat it.”

He listened and held his silence.

“Anyway, I substituted porcini mushrooms for the corn smut. Javier got all bent out of shape about it and said I ruined the dish. But none of the diners complained. Not a single one. I pointed that out and he practically started frothing at the mouth and yelled at me to leave.”

The last few words ended on a sob. Cecily turned her head into his shoulder and wept. Pyotr held her, knowing that she needed simple support, not words, from him. A knock on the door announced the arrival of their supper.

“Vozlyublennaya, I must answer the door,” he said, gently disengaging her.

She nodded and sniffled and rose to her feet. Pyotr pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. She pressed the clean linen to her face and inhaled the scent of him from the fabric. Really, other than her dad, she didn’t know any man who still used a handkerchief.

The hotel’s room service waiter rolled in a table. Pyotr took care of the charges.

“Sit,” he said as he removed the steel covers from the plates. “You must eat.”

She nodded and sat in the desk chair, leaving the arm chair for him. He rolled the table to her, the pulled the armchair over. The awkward arrangement did not interfere too much with the consumption of their meal.

“So, what do you wish to do now?” Pyotr asked her.

“I don’t want to go back to Cleveland,” she replied with a stubborn pout.

Well, damn, he thought. He shoved the disappointment aside. “I have some contacts in the area. I can ask—”

“Pyotr, I don’t want you to become any more beholden to the Bratva than you already are,” she protested, cutting him off. She took a deep breath and said, “I’ll find something.”

“You have my support always, dorogoy.”

“I’ll pay you back for everything.”

“Nyet. There is no money between us.”

“But—”

“Nyet. You wear my ring, you are mine. I take care of what is mine.”

Her cheeks blush a pretty rose, but she did not refute his statement. He felt a deep sense of satisfaction from her silence acceptance. After supper, Pyotr took Cecily to bed where he made long, slow, intensely sweet love to her until she sank into a deep, exhausted slumber. Wrenching himself from the bed, he pulled out his phone and stepped into the bathroom. Closing the door, he called. The conversation was conducted in softly spoken Russian.

“Vitaly.”

“What is it, Pyotr?”

“I want out.”

Silence.

“Are you sure?”

“Cecily will not have me if I remain.”

“She means more to you than the brotherhood?”

“Does Gia not mean more to you than anything else?”

Silence.

“I will speak to Maksim for you. He won’t be pleased.”

“He gave me a month to settle things with Cecily.”

“When did the countdown start?”

“Twenty-five days ago.”

“You’re cutting it fine.”

“I know. I will go back to Cleveland to wrap things up, but then I am coming back here. I need her.”

Pyotr’s voice, this with emotion, nearly broke on those last three words.

“I know,” Vitaly replied softly. “I know.”

“I return in two days.”

“Does Maksim know?”

“Da.”

Vitaly’s sigh whispered across the connection. “I will see you in two days. And I will speak to Maksim on your behalf.”

“Spasibo.”

Life was hell on a mobster who found a higher calling.