Chapter 2 - The Kitchen Whispers
The moment I pushed through the heavy swinging doors of the kitchen, Rosa dropped a handful of parsley onto the metal prep table.
“What took you so long?” she hissed, grabbing my arm. “Did Luca say something disgusting? I saw his face twist when you walked away. What did you do, Nora?”
“Nothing,” I said calmly, untying my apron and tossing it onto the hook by the walk-in cooler. “I just brought them their water.”
“Nora, those aren't guys you play with,” Rosa whispered, her eyes wide with genuine fear. “Dante Greco owns half of downtown. If Luca Bellandi has a problem with you, you won't have a job tomorrow. You might not even have teeth.”
“Luca doesn't run the restaurant, Rosa. And he certainly doesn't own me,” I replied, pulling my leather jacket from my locker.
“You’re leaving? It’s only eight o'clock!”
“My shift ended ten minutes ago,” I said, checking my phone. “And I have a constitutional law paper due by midnight. Good luck with table seven. Give them the 2015 Barolo. They’ll complain it’s too young, but it’s the most expensive bottle we have, so they’ll drink it anyway.”
Before Rosa could argue, I slipped out the back exit into the cool Boston autumn air.
The alley behind La Luna Rossa was narrow, brick-lined, and shadowed by the towering structures of the North End. It was usually quiet, save for the hum of the restaurant's commercial AC units. But tonight, as I pulled my scarf tight against the wind, a long, black Mercedes-Maybach was parked idling near the mouth of the alley, blocking the sidewalk.
A man was leaning against the passenger door, smoking a cigarette.
It wasn't Luca.
It was Dante Greco.
He looked taller in the dim amber light of the streetlamp, his charcoal jacket unbuttoned, his dark hair catching the wind. When he saw me step out of the doorway, he didn't move away. He pushed off the car and walked slowly toward me, the glowing tip of his cigarette casting a faint red light across his sharp jawline.
“Nora,” he said.
His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the hum of the city with absolute authority.
I stopped walking, keeping three feet of concrete between us. My hand instinctively slid into my coat pocket, wrapping around the heavy metal canister of pepper spray I always carried.
“Mr. Greco,” I said, keeping my tone level. “If you’re looking for the manager, he’s inside. If you’re looking for a better table, you’re out of luck on a Friday night.”
Dante stopped just close enough for me to smell the faint scent of sandalwood, expensive bourbon, and clean cotton. He took one final drag of his cigarette, flicked it into a nearby storm drain, and looked down at me with those bottomless dark eyes.
“You speak Sicilian,” he said, stating it not as a question, but as a dossier fact.
“My grandmother was from Monreale,” I replied, not blinking. “She taught me how to speak it, and she taught me how to spot cheap men who think talking behind someone’s back in a foreign language makes them invisible.”
A muscle twitched in Dante’s jaw. For a second, a strange, dangerous light flickered in his eyes—something that looked dangerously close to amusement.
“Luca has a foul mouth,” Dante said quietly. “He forgets his manners when he’s outside the boardroom. I apologize for him.”
“An apology from a Greco?” I raised an eyebrow. “That’s almost as shocking as a billionaire tipping twenty percent.”
Dante’s lips parted in a slow, dangerous smile. It completely transformed his face, turning him from a cold corporate statue into something lethal and breathtaking.
“You’ve got a sharp tongue, Nora,” he murmured, taking a slow step closer. “Most people in this neighborhood drop their eyes when my name is mentioned. You looked Luca in the eye and spoke his own dialect back to him.”
“Most people in this neighborhood aren't paying their own way through law school,” I said sharply. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a constitutional brief to write, and you have a table of sycophants waiting inside.”
I tried to step past him, but Dante’s hand shot out—not grabbing me, but resting lightly on the brick wall beside my shoulder, effectively blocking my path without touching a single thread of my clothes.
“Law school,” Dante repeated, tasting the words. “Whose firm?”
“None of your business.”
“Everything in Boston is my business, Nora,” he said softly, his face dangerously close to mine. “Especially when someone in my circle crosses paths with a woman who understands Sicilian better than her boss.”
“Move, Mr. Greco,” I said, my voice dropping an octave, carrying a cold, unflinching steel that made him pause.
Dante held my gaze for three agonizing seconds longer, searching my face for any sign of fear. When he found none, a slow, appreciative breath escaped his lips.
May you like
He dropped his arm, stepping back into the shadows of the alley.
“Be careful walking home alone, Nora,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. “The North End at night can be full of surprises.”
