by Nico Rosso
He’d never make a grilled cheese sandwich or improvise a burrito from leftovers again if he could eat whatever was coming out of Chef Hayley’s kitchen every day. The pelmeni continued to warm him. Perfect dough. Rich meat. He remembered it almost as vividly as he did turning to see Hayley after the fight, standing with the metal spoon in her hand, ready to defend herself. She earned a whole other level of respect when he’d taken in how she’d tried to control her fear and stand her ground.
The tequila burned a slow path down his throat. He hissed a breath through his teeth, erasing any thoughts of what would’ve happened if the sharpened danger of the two hit men had gotten to her.
“Fuck that,” he said out loud, then downed the other half of the glass and refilled it. There was no chance he’d have let them touch her. The only way they’d have gotten close was if Art was dead. Which was more dedication than he’d give his supposed boss, Rolan.
Art had just met her that night, but if he had to pick between them, he’d save her. As far as Rolan and the rest of his mob organization, the Orel Group, was concerned, Art’s job was to protect the boss at all costs. But they didn’t know he had another job. He’d taken it to protect innocent people like Hayley.
And, man, if he’d just been a normal guy chilling outside a club and eating an order of dumplings, he would’ve been happy to spend a few minutes in her company. Chef Hayley was as sharp as razor wire. Quick wits and agile without being mean. Easy to look at, too. A few inches shorter than him, with a cropped blond bob and blue eyes that collected the light. And the body? He sipped the tequila. The chef’s coat wasn’t formfitting, but he saw she was strong and curvy. Would she go for a guy like him? It didn’t matter. She didn’t know what kind of man he was. To her, he was a goon, working for the mob, and he couldn’t tell her anything different.
He hadn’t been a normal guy for a long time. Things were too complicated for anything other than a casual hookup that was quickly dismissed. Hayley wouldn’t play that. Nothing was casual about her. Just eating her simple food was like a weekend in bed.
Luckily it hadn’t come down to making the choice between her and Rolan. The two assassins were skilled, but rough around the edges and too confident. They weren’t coordinated as a team. He’d picked them apart and only had small cuts like he’d been repairing the screens in the crawl spaces under his mom’s house.
He took another drink, sorting the night’s events and letting the tequila mingle with his slow, tired blood. Another mob had made a play on Rolan. The territory was in flux. It would ramp up the boss’s plans to pull in the other Orel Group heads for the big meeting. There was strength in numbers, and Rolan needed their help to squash out the competition in the southwestern region.
Art would be there, undercover, running point for the operation to bust that meeting. He had a rendezvous with his strike team the next day and would relate the escalation to them. A lot of moving pieces needed to be in place before they could take Rolan and the Orel Group down. But Art and the other operators worked like the components of a machine gun. Maybe that was why the shady black ops soldiers who’d first formed the team had named it Automatik.
Sipping his tequila, he walked back through the dark living room. The sun would be up soon. How much sleep would he get before the day burned him awake? Living a double life took all his energy.
He sat on the bed, surrounded by the solid silence of his blackout curtains. Tonight’s threat had been neutralized. A broken bone and non-life-threatening knife wounds were easy to explain to the cops. The men had been taken away and would be released on bail as soon as their crime family came through. Art’s cover hadn’t been blown. A new civilian had arrived in the mix, and she hadn’t been hurt in the attack.
From the way Hayley had held the spoon, she could’ve given anyone hell. He was sure she had at some point. Anyone willing to stand out alone and sell food in foreign territory had to have a huge set of radishes. And a reason. Her ferocity in the negotiations had proved that. She was fighting not to lose.
She didn’t know it, but he was fighting for her, too. He’d seen that she knew what she was doing when she’d shaken Rolan’s hand, but there was no way she understood how spiked and twisted the web was. Would he be able to end all this before she got hurt? He’d joined Automatik to keep people safe. The undercover job with Rolan and the Orel Group had a personal meaning, too.
Revenge.
He was in deep and wanted to be in deeper, twisting the knife.
* * *
Hayley peered at normal life from a distance. Four days had passed since the incident at the Sea Weed. She’d gone over the events again and again and couldn’t find anything she’d done wrong. Still, she felt like a criminal. And something as ordinary as a farmer’s market was distorted and alien for her now.
It was the same set of stalls in the same parking lot in the same old part of town, near brick business buildings, but anything familiar appeared too distant to touch. She walked through the rows, examined the fresh food and interacted with the farmers and sellers, yet it all rang false. Or tenuous, like she was about to slip up any second and reveal a terrible secret. The sky would go dark, and the people would turn on her like she was a monster in the village.
But she couldn’t figure out what the secret was. She’d witnessed a real knife fight, with a violence she’d never seen. Art had been brutal and precise. Men had been broken and hurt. She’d run before the cops had arrived, and there’d been no contact since. There had been one mention on a local website about trouble outside a club, and three or four of the people who’d been standing outside had mentioned the fight on social media, but there weren’t a lot of details. Everyone seemed to know it wasn’t their business, and to say anything about it would draw them into the danger.
She was in it. That was her secret. Since that night, she’d worn her denim jacket like armor, even though the days were warm. She was fully aware of a perilous criminal world and she was planning on going back to turn a profit, instead of running as far away as possible. Which made her a crook, too. Like Art, who was always at the center of her thoughts. Coiled, a knife in both hands, smiling.
“The daikons are fresh.” Carol, the Chinese woman who ran one of the better food stalls, picked up one of the glowing white radishes and shaved off a slice with a pocket knife. “Sharp, but a little sweet.”
Hayley took it, and the quick burn of the daikon’s spice brought her a few miles closer to the rest of the world. But could she look Carol in the eye without the other woman knowing she’d waded into deep criminal water?
She selected a couple of daikons and handed them to Carol to be weighed. “You have dill?”
“With the herbs.” Carol pointed to the piles of green bundles. “Planning something?”
“Experimenting.” Hayley picked through the dill stalks, finding the freshest and firmest. This was how it was supposed to be. Collecting what was in season, finding a way to use it and presenting it to the diners in her restaurant. “The daikon will go great in a simple cucumber salad. Sour cream, dill, lemon juice.”
But she didn’t have a restaurant. Just a steam cart and a handshake with a mob boss.
“Sounds excellent.” The woman bagged the radishes and the dill Hayley gave her. “Still waiting for you to open your own place.”
Hayley took a long breath. “It’s going to be a while longer.” The first night of sales from the cart had been decent. How many more of those would it take to pay her mom back? And how long after that until she got into the black?
Carol looked on with sympathy. News of Hayley and Burton’s breakup had made the rounds through the restaurant and food service community months ago.
Then Carol’s face lit up. “Just a whim, try bitter melon in the salad.” The woman comped Hayley one in the bag. “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be there opening night.”
&nb
sp; Opening night. She’d worked so hard for that moment, to see her mother and family there, sitting at a table, sharing her food and clinking generous glasses of wine over low candles. What had been so close now tasted impossible.
And the main reason was probably sauntering through the same farmer’s market searching for just the right ingredient. Hayley fought the welling of hot tears.
“Thanks, Carol.” She took the offered bag of produce from the woman. “Don’t need a restaurant. As soon as I have a decent dining table, I’ll have you over for dinner.”
The woman’s eyes glinted, mischievous. “I’ll bring the wild card ingredients.” Then she glared over Hayley’s shoulder. “He’s here. Just up the aisle to your left.”
The muscles between her shoulder blades knotted. But she wasn’t about to run and hide from Burton. He was a son of a bitch with cold feet and a cold heart. She had kept cooking.
She turned, a small sneer on her lips. Burton saw her and stared back, about three stalls away. The harsh sun beat down. Everything glowed in a haze except Burton. His shaggy blond hair was deliberately tousled around his clean-cut and handsome face. Lanky and muscular, he was at least a head taller than most of the people around him. He held a couple of bags of produce and wore his usual shorts and a T-shirt. His customary easygoing surfer-guy chill seemed frozen.
They’d run into each other a few times since the breakup but hadn’t spoken more than a cupful of words. This felt different. Charged. Did he see that she was part criminal now? She tried to deny how much she embraced that darkness, when confronted with someone she wanted to intimidate. It was too intoxicating.
“Trouble?” A man’s voice at her shoulder startled Hayley. She twisted to face Art, whose focus remained down the aisle at Burton. That ready violence lurked dangerously close to the surface.
It was a shock to see him there, so out of context, in her world. “No trouble,” she reassured him. But she had to wonder what he was doing there.
Art loosened his shoulders and relaxed. “Looked like a standoff.”
She glared at Burton again. “That battle’s over.”
Her ex glanced from her to Art and back again. Slowly, Burton stepped up the aisle until he disappeared beyond a stall selling roasted nuts.
Was this how it would work from now on—she’d think felonious thoughts, and Art would show up out of nowhere, bringing his menace? Her head spun a bit from the criminal cocktail. So much potential. If they were outside the rules, they could do anything together.
She pulled her wallet from her purse and peeled out a few bills. “Tell me this is a coincidence and you’re out here looking for the perfect basil for your pesto recipe.” The money went over to Carol, who made change and deliberately eyed Art quizzically.
He was out of place at the farmer’s market. Rough around the edges, wearing his light jacket in the warm day. Dark sunglasses obscured his expression, making his intent more mysterious. Her skin prickled, aware of how close he was. And how close she was to touching all that potential motion and energy.
Hayley managed to answer Carol with a quick shrug. Whatever information she did have about Art wasn’t something she’d give willingly without implicating herself. Carol waggled her eyebrows before Hayley and Art moved away from the stall.
Yeah, Art was sexy. She was sure Carol and everyone else at the market saw it. Even Burton must’ve recognized Art’s potency. But none of them knew about his job the way she did. And they hadn’t seen his efficient violence the way she had.
He walked beside her while she continued on her rounds. Daytime Art was much looser than she’d seen him by the club. His shoulders swung slightly and his lower body turned like he had his own theme song, thumping with a heavy beat. It would be easy to match that rhythm. Her body wanted to, rocking her own hips.
She tried to examine his expression, but the sunglasses were too dark.
“Do I have any secrets anymore?” she asked. “Did you use your...contacts to find me?”
He stopped walking and took off his sunglasses so she could see his serious eyes. “I don’t want your secrets. You don’t want mine. I found you all by myself. Where better to find a great chef than near great food, right?”
“You’re a smart guy, Art.” And sensual. And rough. And brutal.
He held up a warning finger. “You can’t know that about me. I said you didn’t want any of my secrets.” A wry smile twinkled his eyes.
“I won’t tell a soul.”
“Bueno.” His accent was authentic.
“But how are people not supposed to catch on that you have a brain when you speak Russian and Spanish?”
His fist was held low. “They usually only hear this.”
She went silent. But she saw hints of sadness and distance in his eyes. Part of her wanted to cover that territory and find out more about the man behind the scarred knuckles.
He put his sunglasses back on, started walking again then paused for her to catch up. It didn’t feel like she had a choice. They were in the same world together now. She walked at his side. He chewed on thoughts.
Eventually he spared a few words. “My father was hecho en Mexico. Mother from Mother Russia. She’s the one who raised me.”
“Makes perfect sense.” She directed them to a stall where she found ripe tomatoes and bought them. While the transaction went down, Art waited, his hands holding the lapels of his jacket again. It made him lean back a bit and peer down toward the world while the sides of his neck flexed. There was something casual about the posture, yet he was still ready to spring into action.
Part of her wished he was merely there to market with her. It would’ve been so much simpler. Flirting, talking about food. She’d cook him a meal with everything they found. He’d be fun to watch eat. Despite the tough exterior, he sensed the world. She’d seen it when he’d tried her pelmeni. So she’d experiment on him with new recipes. After dinner and the last of the wine, that strong body of his would experiment on her...
Sweat rose on the back of her neck when she imagined his mouth there. Her breath fell short as if his arms were around her and she pressed herself back into his chest. The need came on too strong. She shook off the thoughts. It didn’t matter how much physical potential there was between them. He worked for the mob boss she was paying a cut to. There was nothing innocent about strolling through the rows of food.
Pausing at the intersection of aisles, she turned to him. “You’re not here for the produce.”
He shook his head, mouth a serious, thin line. “I’m here for business.” His whole posture changed, transforming into that wary predator. He glanced at the people around them. “There’s got to be someplace more private we can talk.”
She led them away from the farmer’s market, toward a small food court on the other side of one of the office buildings. It would be quiet, but public. She wasn’t ready to get behind closed doors with Art when he was acting this sketchy.
Once they’d cleared past most of the people, she asked, “Is this about the guys with the knives?”
“No. That’ll never touch you.”
Her mind spun, trying to think about what other business there was. The only deal she had with Rolan was for her steam cart. Maybe this was his way of renegotiating.
“They were really going after your boss?”
“Yeah.” He rubbed absently at his knuckles.
“But no guns?”
He tilted his head toward her. “You ask a lot of questions for someone who only wants to sell dumplings.”
“I can’t sell dumplings if bullets are flying.”
“You got that right, Chef.” He chuckled. “For a hit in a public place like that, they use knives instead of guns to keep collateral damage down. Innocent bystanders get shot, and the cops get interested. Knives are quiet.”
; “Mine are just for cooking.”
His temper darkened again. He hardly moved his jaw to utter, “Let’s keep it that way.”
They reached the contained food court and skirted to the far side of a wide stone fountain. It was the farthest spot from any of the other people at the small metal tables. They settled at their own table, joined only by the burbling of the fountain and the occasional bird flitting past.
Nerves ground into her. What was his business? It was something serious. And so dire that it appeared like he didn’t even want to be here discussing it.
Art took a long breath and removed his sunglasses to stare at her. She was about to find out the cost of making a deal with Rolan.
The wry glimmer deadened in his eyes. This wasn’t the man who’d stood by her at the cart, smelling the food and letting it transport him to whatever past he had. At the table with her now was what she expected from a mob enforcer. A hard, unfeeling mask. But she knew what was beneath that mask. Did that make her dangerous to him?
Her palms sweat and her chest tightened. Her mind traced back to when they’d entered the food court. Where were the exits? Could she get to them before he caught her? She wasn’t sure if there was any possibility of running from what was coming. Art’s role in everything remained a mystery.
“My boss, Rolan,” he finally informed her, “wants you to cook for a weeklong retreat he’s throwing for friends.”
A sigh of relief caught in her throat. That kind of gig should be a piece of cake, and she’d kill for the opportunity. But if Art was making this big of a deal, something must be wrong.
She tried to keep her mind from flying to the worst possibilities: she would be on the menu, or other women who didn’t want to be there, or it would be one of those mob meetings that turned into a bloodbath as they cleaned house.
“How many people?” she queried automatically, as if this was just business.
“Eighteen. Some will need fancier food than the others.”
“One week?”
“Seven days.”
