Sera placed a comforting hand on her aunt’s shoulder, then continued reading. Despite her efforts to remain calm, her own voice played the scale of outrage with every sentence.
“However, neither her cooking nor her conduct were really up to my exacting standards. I found her disappointing, if I’m honest. And I don’t mind telling you, I was rather surprised to discover Miss Wilde had opened an establishment that went by the name of ‘Bliss,’” Chef Austin informed this reporter. “My experience of Miss Wilde was that she knew very little of bliss, culinary or carnal. Back when I knew her, she had a bit of a reputation as a… well, suffice it to say she wasn’t known for her comfort within the realm of the sensual.” Asked what he meant by this statement, Chef Austin refused to comment, beyond saying, “There was a reason we ended our association. Best of luck to her, of course. But one has to wonder if she’s really being up-front with her customers by peddling them the promise of some confectionary Kama Sutra, considering her personal shortcomings in that milieu.”
She flung the paper across the shop. “Shortcomings! He’s one to talk. The man couldn’t boil an egg without an assistant! And that’s only his professional shortcomings. Don’t get me started on the size of his—”
Friedrich, who’d been wiping the spigots on the already clean espresso machine, coughed sharply. Both women turned to look at the young man they’d practically forgotten was with them in the shop. Blushing, the slight, dark-haired youth mumbled something in the general direction of the brass-fitted machine’s innards. It was so unusual to hear him speak that both women stopped, mid-rant.
“What was that? Speak up, kid,” Pauline demanded.
Friedrich swallowed and found his rarely used voice. “I said, it sounds like libel to me. Maybe you should sue.”
“I’ll do one better,” Sera vowed. “Get that Pyle woman on the phone, would you, Pauline? I’ve got a few choice words for that chick.”
In the end, Sera had to settle for arranging an interview for the Monday after Thanksgiving—even the skeletal Miss Pyle, it seemed, took time off for turkey day. The reporter had grudgingly agreed to reinterview Sera, though she’d refused to apologize for printing Blake’s words without referring back to their object for comment. Journalists today, Sera reflected as she served her last customer and prepared to go home to her own well-deserved dinner. They’ll print any old gossip, never mind the damage they’re doing. She couldn’t help wondering if she’d soon see a drop-off in business as a result of what the paper had printed. Certainly, Pauline hadn’t done much trade in the back room this morning, but Sera told herself she was being paranoid—Thanksgiving weekend just wasn’t the right time, probably, for people to focus on their sexual gratification—they were too busy gratifying their gullets.
That was what Sera told herself—and reassured Pauline—with as much conviction as she could muster. But Blake’s opening salvo had her more nervous than she let on. A few innuendos might not be enough to keep people from shopping at Bliss, but who knew what he had planned next? Blake’s takedown back in New York had started similarly. And the worst of it was, the article had mentioned he was still in town—intended to stay through the holidays, apparently, to see his new venture through its maiden voyage. He could do a lot of damage in that time.
She’d never been able to figure out exactly why he was so relentless, so ruthless in his pursuit of her downfall, until a former associate had explained it to her after apologetically turning her down for a job.
“Look, Sera. I’d love to hire you,” the burly executive chef at a certain Midtown staple had said to her one afternoon. His ruddy face turned ruddier as he spoke, and he couldn’t quite look her in the eye. Instead he fiddled with the salt and pepper shakers that graced the linen-draped two-top he’d invited her to share with him between the lunch and dinner shifts. At least he’d given her the courtesy of an interview—few others in his position had been willing to do as much, as Sera had learned to her chagrin over the months since her showdown with Blake in the Hamptons. “Meltdown at the Maidstone,” they were calling it, or so she’d heard from those few friends whose loyalty she’d managed to retain. Ever since, she’d been pounding the pavement like nobody’s business, and getting nothing but doors slammed shut in her face.
“But you’re not going to hire me, are you?” She’d gulped the tepid water from her glass, wishing it were wine—or hell, a whole flock of Grey Geese—but knowing she was through with all that. Pauline hadn’t gotten her into that twelve-step program for nothing, and Sera was clinging to her new sobriety with all ten claws. But at times like these… well, a double vodka would go down pretty smooth. She fiddled with the stem of the glass, daring a glance up at the chef she’d always admired for being a straight shooter as well as a damn good cook.
“No, I’m not,” he said. “You’re talented as hell and any kitchen in this city would be lucky to have you—but I’m sorry. I just can’t risk it. Chef Austin’s put the word out that you’re untouchable, and he’s got too much clout for me to go against him. He could have health inspectors on my ass. He could get me negatively reviewed. He could pressure my suppliers to stop selling to me. Hell, I once saw him get a fishmonger barred from the Hunts Point Market just for selling his mahimahi to another customer instead of saving it all for one of Blake’s restaurants—when Blake didn’t even have an order in that day. And that ain’t the worst of what Austin’s done when he’s out for blood. Sorry, Serafina. You’re a great pastry chef, but no dessert, no matter how delicious, is worth that kind of grief.”
“I… I don’t understand,” Sera had whispered, hating the break in her voice that betrayed her. “Why is he doing this?”
“Way I see it, it’s pretty simple,” the chef said with a sympathetic grimace. “I know Chef Austin, and that is one bastard who does not like to be crossed. I heard all about that day—hell, half the kitchens in Manhattan are still buzzing over it—and bad as that whole business was for you, it’s been a slap in the face to Austin, too.” At Sera’s uncomprehending expression, he explained. “Honey, you’re the only woman—hell, the only person—who’s ever managed to make a fool of Austin. He’s a man who expects complete loyalty, blind obedience, and most of all worship. Hooking up with another guy, right there in his own domain in front of all his minions, was the ultimate humiliation, even if he would never cop to it in a million years. And when you dared to yell at him afterward, you challenged his rule. You showed spine, if only for a second. He can’t have that—his whole reputation is built on being an iron-fisted tyrant. If girlfriends start sassing him, if fellow chefs mutiny, his whole empire could crumble. Or at least, that’s how he sees it.”
“That, and he’s a total freaking psychopath,” Sera had muttered.
“Yup.” The chef had patted her hand sympathetically. “There’s definitely a screw loose with that one—or maybe one that’s wound too tight. Dangerous either way. Once Austin locks on to a target, he doesn’t stop until it’s utterly annihilated. But hey.” He brightened. “Maybe you should try catering. I bet you could fly under the radar, and the money’s not bad.” He’d hesitated, calculating. “I could put in a good word for you with a coupla places. I can do that much, at least. But stay away from Blake Austin—seriously, Serafina. The guy’s like a pit bull, and I don’t wanna see you get mangled.”
Too late.
But a year was long enough for Sera to spend rolling over and showing her belly in submission. It was time to put this rabid dog down.