Chapter 4 - The Game of PredatorsThe world I had built around myself like a fortress crumbled in a matter of seconds.
I wasn't Pete Cale. I was just a frightened girl playing dress-up in an oversized flannel shirt, hiding from a monster while working for an even bigger one.
I pulled my wrist away from Rossi’s grip, stumbling back against the stainless-steel prep table until my lower back hit the edge with a dull thud.
“Are you going to turn me in?” I asked, my voice shaking despite my best efforts to sound brave. “Are you going to use me as leverage against Crane? Because if you are, you might as well get it over with.”
Rossi straightened up, sliding his hands into the pockets of his slacks. He looked at me not with cruelty, but with an infuriating mixture of appraisal and fascination.
“Leverage?” Rossi’s lips twitched into a cold smile. “Crane is a third-rate loan shark playing at being a gentleman. I don't need leverage against him, Penny. I need a reason to crush him entirely. And you walking into my kitchen, disguising yourself as a line cook, and hiding under my nose for nine months... that is the most entertaining thing that has happened in Boston financial circles in a decade.”
“It wasn't a game to me,” I said, my voice rising, the anger finally burning away the terror. “My family is losing everything. Crane holds the debt on the restaurant my grandparents built. He’s using it to force me into a marriage I would rather die than enter.”
Rossi’s expression shifted. The amusement vanished, replaced by a sharp, lethal edge.
“Your family’s debt has already been acquired,” Rossi said casually.
My breath caught. “What?”
“Two weeks ago, a shell corporation registered in the Cayman Islands quietly bought up eighty percent of Caldwell Family Table’s secured debt from Crane Capital at a fraction of its face value.”
I stared at him, uncomprehending. “Who... who bought it?”
Rossi stepped closer, resting his palms on the prep table on either side of my hips, effectively trapping me in his space.
“I did,” Rossi said smoothly.
The kitchen seemed to tilt on its axis.
“You... you bought our debt?” I whispered.
“I bought your freedom, Penny. Though I admit, I hadn't planned on collecting payment in the form of a stubborn chef hiding behind a baseball cap.”
“Why?” I demanded, grabbing the lapels of his shirt, forgetting for a moment who he was, forgetting that men like Nicholas Rossi didn't do favors out of the goodness of their hearts. “Why would a syndicate boss buy a failing diner in the North End?”
Rossi looked down at my hands clutching his shirt, then back up into my eyes. His gaze was burning, intense, and utterly consuming.
“Because,” Rossi murmured, his voice dropping into a gravelly whisper, “when a woman walks into my city, sheds her entire life, and reinvents herself just to avoid being owned by another man... I find myself wanting to see how far she’ll go. And lately, Penny, I find myself wanting to ensure no one else ever lays a hand on what belongs in my house.”
Before I could process the words, before I could push him away or lean into the magnetic pull of his presence, the heavy swing doors of the kitchen burst open.
Mateo stood in the doorway holding a clipboard, blinking in confusion at the sight of his boss pinning his best line cook against the prep table.
“Boss, sorry, I left my—oh. Shit. Am I interrupting?” Mateo muttered, immediately turning on his heel and backing out through the doors.
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Rossi didn't flinch. He slowly withdrew his hands, stepping back and smoothing down his shirt cuffs with absolute, unbothered composure.
“Get some sleep, Pete,” Rossi said, a wicked, knowing smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Tomorrow morning, we’re going to have a little chat about your true culinary credentials. And tomorrow evening, Douglas Crane is going to find out what happens when you try to foreclose on a property that belongs to me.”
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