Broken Vows

by Nicole Fox

  “Mercilessly,” I laugh.

  “When are you going to learn?” she teases. “It is like dumping ketchup on a perfectly cooked steak. They buy fancy coffee and prepare it so you don’t need to add anything.”

  “Fancy or not, it still tastes like burnt bean juice without some cream and sugar,” I shrug.

  Makayla shakes her head, lips pursed. “For a chef, your coffee palate sure is abysmal.”

  “I’ll survive somehow.” I hold up the drink menu. “This week’s special is a Sweet and Sour Chicken Toddy.”

  She wrinkles her nose in disgust. “That is disgusting. Give me a second, I’m going to go order it.”

  I laugh as she walks over to the bar and orders her drink. The bartender gives her a big smile and leans across the bar like the three customers in the room are being too loud for him to hear her otherwise, but Makayla just orders her drink, drops a tip in the cup, and walks back to the bar, oblivious. Every time Makayla and I go out together, guys practically throw themselves at her, and she either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. I’m always half-tempted to tell her to flirt back and try to find herself a nice guy, but I’ve had enough people in my life pressuring me to find a relationship. I don’t want to do the same thing to Makayla. Whatever her reasons for not engaging—disinterest or naivete—they are her own.

  “The bartender seemed surprised I wanted to order it,” she says, settling into her chair. “It might be the first one they’ve sold all week.”

  “I’d expect hipsters to be more adventurous.”

  “They are,” she says. “But just with their milk substitutes. Did you know oat milk is a thing now? I thought milking nuts was strange, but now we are milking grains, too. That’s pretty adventurous.”

  I genuinely laugh. Head tipped back, eyes closed, and it feels good. I haven’t laughed in days.

  Apparently, Makayla has noticed. “You must be feeling better than you were last night.”

  I sigh. “How much of that did you see?”

  “Enough.” Her thin lips pucker into a nervous knot and she stares down at the table, her finger tracing the wood grain. “Who was that guy in the kitchen all night? He freaked me out. I thought Cal would kick him out, but he didn’t even look at him.”

  I shrug. “I don’t know his name.”

  “Is he…” she hesitates, trying to find the right word. “Dangerous?”

  I don’t want to lie to Makayla, but I also don’t want to tell her the truth. She is one of the only normal friends I’ve really had in my life, and I don’t want her getting tangled up in my mess. So, I settle for a lie by omission. “Not to you.”

  This doesn’t seem to comfort her. “Are you in trouble, though? The table you served last night looked at you like they wanted to eat you.”

  The bartender walks to our table and leans over Makayla’s shoulder to place her drink in front of her, his body pressed close to her shoulder. Makayla doesn’t act bothered or surprised. She just thanks him without looking up and then turns her full attention back to me. I see the man visibly shrink as he walks away, disappointed in her apparent lack of interest.

  “They were assholes,” I say, remembering the cold dread that slipped down my spine every time I had to get close to the two Volkov men. Ivan dealt in humiliation and insults, but his son—Luka, if I heard Ivan correctly—was an enigma. Whereas Ivan smiled like a hissing cat and showed his claws whenever he could, Luka sat back. He observed. He tracked me with his eyes like a bird of prey tracking a mouse, but he did not pounce. That was more unsettling than anything.

  When I saw him pull his blade while I was bussing the table, I thought he would come for me. I ran to my car after my shift, certain he would slip from the shadows and plunge the blade into my chest. And when I got home, I locked my doors and watched my windows, waiting for him to appear. But he didn’t come.

  What did he want? To marry me? Certainly not. I didn’t understand Luka’s motivations, but I knew he was not the marrying type. So why did he offer? Especially when it so clearly went against his father’s wishes. Was he just trying to mess with me? Perhaps, that is his plan. To torture me with the anticipation, with the uncertainly of how or when he’ll strike. He wants me to drive myself crazy with worry, but I won’t give him the satisfaction. In fact, I won’t think about him at all.

  “Handsome assholes,” Makayla says quietly, as though she is ashamed to have to admit it.

  “Yeah, isn’t that the worst?”

  Okay, so I’ve thought about Luka a little. Never on purpose, though. It is just hard not to think about one of the most attractive men I’ve ever seen. Luka has a shit personality, but an incredible body. Like an example cake in a bakery window—four perfectly frosted layers that look good enough to bite into it, but it is actually Styrofoam and spackling paste.

  He is broad in all the right places with killer cheekbones even his dark beard can’t hide. His hair is shaved close on the sides, the top longer and naturally wavy. And his green eyes. I’ve never seen eyes so green in all my life. For a moment, I thought they were fake. It was like looking out on a forest meadow on the perfect sunny spring day. Beautiful and serene. But his clamped tight lips and furrowed brows told me Luka was anything but serene. Violence seemed to roil off of him like wind off the ocean, and I was worried he’d suck me in if I got too close.

  Makayla sighs, and I am ashamed when I realize where my mind has been. I don’t want to think about Luka Volkov. He isn’t worth a second of my time.

  “Hopefully they won’t be back again tonight,” she says.

  “Hopefully.” I sip my coffee, which mostly tastes like sugar thanks to my additions, and let Makayla talk for a while. She complains about her landlord trying to raise her rent in the middle of her lease, talks about a trashy reality television show she knows is scripted, but can’t stop watching anyway, and smiles reliving the previous weekend when her dad came to the city to visit and they went to a baseball game and then got drunk at an adult arcade. I listen with jealousy, wishing my life could be so simple. Wishing I could spend a fun weekend with my dad in the city, hanging out like two normal people.

  Almost on cue, my phone rings. It is my father.

  “Sorry, I have to take this.”

  Makayla waves away my apology and stands up. “I need another sweet and sour chicken cocktail, anyway. This is surprisingly good.”

  I wait until she is far enough away that she won’t hear my conversation before I answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Where are you?” he snaps. And then, before I can answer, he continues. “Meet me at the restaurant for an early dinner. We need to talk.”

  It isn’t a question. It’s an order. “I’m having drinks with a co-worker.”

  “Tell her it is an emergency. I’ll see you in ten minutes.”

  He hands up before I can argue, and I only consider not going for a second. If I don’t, he’d send one or more of his men to come fetch me. He wouldn’t even bother to get out and do it himself. He is too busy, and he doesn’t have time for me to act out. Or, at least, that is what he told me the last time I refused to drop what I was doing and meet with him. After the few days I’ve had, I’m not in the mood to hear another lecture, so I finish my coffee in two gulps, apologize profusely for skipping out on Makayla, and leave.

  My father is seated at the same table the Volkovs were at the night before. His hands are steepled in front of him, finger pads drumming against one another while he waits. I can tell by the deep crease between his eyebrows he is upset.

  “Hi, Dad.” I pull out the seat across from him and sit down. He looks up at me, the crease between his brows deepening.

  “I told you to beg for forgiveness, Eve.” He points at the tabletop as though reading from a bulleted list he’d written there. “I told you to give Ivan Volkov whatever he wanted. And yet, you refused to marry his son.”

  “How do you know about that?” Based on Ivan’s reaction to Luka’s proposal, I didn’t think he�
��d mind that I refused. And I certainly didn’t think he’d go to my father about it.

  “Luka came to me.”

  This is even more surprising. “He came to see you? About me?”

  He nods. “He explained the offer he made to you, and said he would give you another chance to accept. It is a gracious offer.”

  “One his own father did not support,” I argue. “You told me to apologize to Ivan, and I did. Ivan did not want Luka to marry me. Luka didn’t discuss it with his father before he made the offer. If you want me to reconcile with Ivan, then I don’t think this is the way.”

  “Fuck Ivan,” my father says, waving his hand as though swatting away a persistent gnat. “A connection to Luka is protection. Ivan will not hurt his own son, his heir. Even if Luka has stepped beyond his father’s counsel for this decision, Ivan will not risk losing his son and starting a war with me by hurting you. This union will save you.”

  “From what?” I ask, voice loud enough to draw the eyes of a few couples enjoying happy hour at the bar. I close my eyes and lower my voice. “Death would be better than being married to him. He is a monster.”

  “The death of everyone you know and love would be better than marrying him?” he asks, sitting back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “You would rather see me die than marry Luka Volkov?”

  “That isn’t fair.”

  He sits forward all at once, top lip pulled back. “Life isn’t fair, Eve.”

  I don’t recognize him. Not when he is like this. The man in front of me is scared and more concerned for his own safety than mine. Because being married to Luka might save us in the short term, but in the long term, it would kill me.

  “I love you, but you are naïve in the ways of this business,” he says, shaking his head. “You are too head strong. Too independent. Honestly, I think being married to a man like Luka could be good for you. He is a leader, and you need—”

  “I need a father,” I growl. “You say you love me, but how can that be true when you are willing to sell me for your own sake? When you are willing to use me like chattel to save your own skin?”

  His eyes widen, and I know my words have found their mark. For my entire life, it has just been the two of us. He has done his best to care for me, and I know, deep down, he thinks that is what he is doing now. He thinks he is saving me. But he’s wrong.

  He looks down at the table and smooths his hand across the surface, his eyes following the movement. When he starts to speak, he doesn’t look up. “Everything I’ve done in my life has been for you, sweet girl. Everything. Since the moment your mom left us, I have devoted my life to keeping you safe.”

  Tears tighten my throat, and I swallow against them. I don’t want to cry. I can’t. Not here. Not when I’ve finally stood up for myself. When my father looks up at me, his eyes are glassy, and a tear slips from the corner of my eyes against my permission.

  “But if you can sit here and claim I do not love you…” he says, his voice breaking. He clears his throat and shakes his head. “If you can think I’m doing this out of selfishness, then apparently I haven’t done my job properly. I’ve failed you.”

  He looks down at the table, and before I can stop myself, I reach out and grab his hand. My fingers wrap around his warm palm, and I pull his hand closer to me, curling both of my hands around it. “You haven’t failed, Dad. You’ve been a wonderful father. You’ve always loved me.”

  My dad has always been strong. I was prepared for him to be stern, to make a stand, to demand I follow his orders. I was not prepared for him to fold beneath my criticism. I wasn’t prepared for him to cry.

  “Don’t say something you don’t mean,” he says, head lowered.

  “I do mean it,” I insist, shaking his hand so he’ll look up at me. “I love you, and I know you love me. I’m sorry I said you didn’t.”

  He looks up at me, his eyes the same caramel brown shade as mine, and slowly, his eyes wrinkle into a smile. He grabs my hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing it gently. “Forgiven, sweet girl.”

  I smile at him, happy that, for the moment, Luka’s marriage proposal is forgotten. Happy that we can have a normal father and daughter moment, if only for a few minutes.

  My first conversation with Cal Higgs since the wine spilling incident with Ivan Volkov does not go as well as the conversation with my father. His doughy face is red, eyes bulging out of his head until I’m certain they’ll pop. Cal is livid.

  “The only reason you are still working here is because I don’t want to deal with your father’s wrath on top of the Volkov family’s,” he spits. “But know that you are on serious probation. If you disrespect any of my customers again, I may not be able to fire you, but I can be damn sure you never make another dish in this kitchen again. How does cleaning duty sound?”

  “I’ll be on my best behavior,” I say, fighting the urge to defend myself. It won’t matter, anyway. Cal Higgs has never been a man of reason. He wouldn’t care what Ivan said to me or how he berated me for no reason. Cal only cares about his bottom line and his reputation, and what I did was bad for both.

  After our very public discussion, the rest of the restaurant staff steer clear of me like I’m infectious. They speak to me only when necessary and make a point to never do so when Cal is nearby. No one wants to incur his anger by simple proximity. Their avoidance makes an especially busy dinner service even more difficult.

  “I can’t plate all of these on my own,” I call over my shoulder while I drizzle balsamic glaze artfully along the edge of the dinner plates. “Someone needs to help me.”

  I wait several seconds, but no one rushes over. “Felix.”

  I see him wince in the corner of my eye. “Yes?”

  “Help me.” I’m not asking. Not being polite. If they want to avoid me, fine, but they can’t avoid their work.

  I show him how to dress the plates, praying we won’t have another confusion in the vein of the raisins versus prunes debacle, but I’m desperate enough that even Felix’s help is better than nothing. Together, we dress the plates, and since Makayla is busy running drinks from the bar since we are short on waitresses, I send him out with the food.

  “But I’m a cook,” he argues.

  “I’m aware, Felix. Tonight, you are a cook and a waiter. Just deliver the food and get back to the kitchen. It’s simple.”

  Apparently, not simple enough, however. Five minutes after Felix delivers the food, Makayla rushes in and whispers in my ear. “Complaint at table ten. They want to see the chef.”

  I groan. “Thanks for not telling Cal.”

  She squeezes my wrist in solidarity, and then hurries back out to the dining room. I follow behind her at a much slower pace.

  As soon as I walk into the room, I glance towards the table where the Volkovs have been sat for the past two nights. They are not there. Instead, an elderly couple are in their place, sharing a slice of salted caramel cheesecake. They make for a very different scene than Luka’s chiseled jaw and broad shoulders. The smiling elderly couple are much less intimidating.

  The men at table ten are not smiling. They glare and follow me with their eyes as I cross the room, hands folded behind my back. I pause at the edge of their table.

  “I heard someone wanted to speak with the chef?”

  “Yes,” a blonde-haired man says, his nose long and pointed like a fox. “The chef. You are not the chef.”

  “I am tonight.” I smile, keeping my promise to Cal not to disrespect any of the guests.

  The fox-faced man runs his tongue along his lower lip. “I was here last night for drinks. Shame you decided to change your outfit. I liked the skirt.”

  The men laugh, enjoying themselves at my expense, and I just continue to smile. If this man wants to get under my skin, he is going to have to try a lot harder. I’ve had a lot of shit thrown my way in the past few days, and I’ve become pretty immune to the smell.

  “What is your problem?” I ask.

  I can see the
gears in the man’s head turning. He is trying to come up with another snarky comment, something to get his friends laughing, but when I raise my eyebrows impatiently, he sighs and pushes his plate forward. “Your dipshit waiter spilled water in my dish.”

  I look at his plate, and sure enough, the chicken is floating in a small pond of watered-down balsamic glaze. Felix.

  “I’m so sorry about that,” I say, grabbing his plate. “I will get you a new one immediately, and your meal is on the house.”

  “What about my friends?” he asks.

  I look at each of their plates. “Did he spill water in their dishes, too?”

  None of them answer.

  “No? Well, then, I’m afraid that will be full price.”

  “Bitch,” one of the men mutters as I walk away, but I barely hear him. I’m in autopilot. I just have to get through this shift. Get through the shift, and I can go home. It becomes my mantra for the night.

  I’m worried the fox-faced man will request to speak to the actual chef since I refused to comp his entire table’s meal, but he leaves without incident. It doesn’t seem like it would have mattered anyway, though, since Cal disappeared halfway through service. His office door is open, but he isn’t in the kitchen or the dining room, and no one seems to know where he went. I assume he is off smoking a joint in the alley, but everyone stays on their best behavior—and continues ignoring me—just in case he shows back up unexpectedly.

  He doesn’t. Not when the dining room closes for the night. Not when the cooks leave. Or when the cleaning staff leaves. Cal doesn’t show up to turn off the lights or lock the doors, so I stay behind and do it all, knowing I still won’t get any praise from him for doing his job. In all likelihood, my run-in with Ivan Volkov has ruined my reputation with Cal forever, and he’ll never let me live it down.

  And if my father gets his way, it won’t matter. I’ll be married to Luka Volkov, and I doubt he is the kind of man who would let me keep my job. The wife of a Bratva boss is supposed to look beautiful and live a life of ease. If your wife has to work, you must not be a good enough boss. So, my years of culinary school will be down the drain, and I’ll be living the life my father always wanted for me, spending my days cooking for my husband and, probably, children. The idea makes me sick.