Beneath The Surface

THE THRONE LEFT WARM

Pov: Carmela Carlo

They served me my brother's body in a black box with gold trim. No red ribbon. No note. Just a single bullet between the eyes and his ring-our ring-on his finger.

I didn't cry. Not at the funeral. Not when I kissed his cold forehead in front of a hundred fake mourners. Not even when I sat alone in Papa's old office that night, the same desk Tony had claimed just two months ago.

No tears. Just plans. The Carlo family doesn't wait for men to step up. If none are left, the women take the knife.

And I took it.

Three days late, I stirred the espresso in my demitasse with the tip of my pinky. That's how long it's been. No arrests. No names. No answers.

Tony's consigliere, Enzo, sat stiff across from me in Papa's leather chair. He hated that I took it, but he didn't have the spine to fight me for it.

"We're working on leads," he said, voice low. "Some say it was the Del Castillo crew."

"They say that every time someone farts." I stood. My heels clicked on the tile as I paced to the window. The city pulsed beneath us. Miami-warm, wild, and stupidly greedy.

I glanced down at the street. Tourists with sunburns. Homeless men fighting over a blanket. Life moved on. Tony didn't.

"Bring me real names or bring me your resignation."

Later that afternoon, I visited the restaurant. Trattoria Carlo used to be the pride of the family. Now it was a dying front that smelled like expired garlic and disappointment. The chef we had was lazy, and the marinara? Bland. If our food wasn't criminal, it should've been.

I needed something fresh. Someone new. Someone not afraid to burn.

Then I decided to find someone myself. That's when I saw him.

He was at the Calle Ocho Food Crawl, flipping some kind of fried ravioli over a cast-iron pan, laughing with a long line of people. Black. Tall. Built like a boxer. His hands worked fast, confident. His sauce bubbled thick and deep red. The smell stopped me cold-smoke, spice, sweetness, memory.

I pushed through the crowd and tasted it myself.

One bite and I almost cursed out loud. Damn.

The man looked up at me. His smile faded slightly. He read something in my expression. Not fear-respect maybe. Hunger, definitely. But not the kind he was used to seeing from women in tight dresses and too much lip gloss.

"You like it?" he asked.

I raised one brow. "What's in the sauce?"

He grinned. "Trade secret."

I leaned in. "Everything in this city has a price."

He looked at me like he already knew I wasn't just another tourist with good taste. "Maybe. But not everything's for sale."

I gave him my card anyway. Carmela Carlo. Owner - Trattoria Carlo.

"Come cook for me," I said. "I'll make it worth your time."

That night, as I watched his food win some ridiculous festival award, I made up my mind.

The restaurant was going to rise again.

The family would bleed for Tony.

And Xavier Brooks?

He was going to be mine whether he liked it or not.

There are two things people fear in this city-my name and what happens when you say no to me.

So, when I walked into Ocho Food Crawl that Thursday night in four-inch heels and a silk coat worth more than the chef's monthly paycheck, I didn't expect to leave empty-handed.

But I didn't come for the food, I came for Xavier Brooks.

I sat at a small corner table, alone, because I liked the discomfort it caused. People whispered when I showed up unannounced. They always did. I scanned the menu but didn't bother ordering. I already knew what I wanted.

I'd watched him before-once, maybe twice-working that open kitchen like it was a battlefield, each dish his ammunition. Not many Black chefs made it to a place like this. Not in a city like mine. But he had. And that meant something.

Tonight, though, the air was off. Tension crackled under the buzz of fluorescent lights. I caught the shift manager in a hushed argument with him by the walk-in. Voices low but sharp. Then a slam of the door. Xavier walked out alone.

He looked like he wanted to punch something. Or someone.

Perfect.

I waited outside. Let the cold air settle on my skin while he paced toward the alley behind the restaurant, unbuttoning his chef coat with jerky movements. I stepped into his path before he could disappear.

He paused, brows knitting together as he saw me.

"You lost or just feeling dramatic tonight?" he asked, voice edged with irritation and something else-fatigue, maybe.

"I'm exactly where I need to be," I said, letting the words rest heavy between us.

His lips twitched, a bitter smirk forming. "If you're here to offer condolences on my job, save it. I just got fired."

"Yes," I replied. "I know."

He blinked. "You spying on me now?"

I shrugged. "I like to be prepared before I make offers."

That got his attention.

"Offers?

I stepped in closer, letting my gaze meet his. "You need money. A lot of it."

His face tightened instantly. The mask slipped, just a crack. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know your mother's name is Amanda Brooks. I know she was diagnosed with intrahepatic cholangiocarcinoma last year-bile duct cancer. I know the only chance she has is a liver resection and proton therapy. That costs a fortune. And I know Ocho wasn't paying you nearly enough for even a consultation."

Xavier's jaw clenched, and for a second, I thought he might walk away. But he didn't. That told me everything I needed to know.

"You've got no right digging into my family."

"I've got every right if I'm the one willing to pay for that surgery."

His expression flickered-half fury, half desperation. He was proud. That much was obvious. But pride couldn't cut a check for a quarter-million-dollar operation.

"You think money's gonna buy me?" he asked, voice low.

"No," I said. "But it might save her."

I let the silence stretch out, let the weight of my words sink into the cold bricks around us.

Then, calmly, I pulled a business card from my coat pocket and handed it to him. Trattoria Carlo. Executive Chef Needed. Starting immediately.

He didn't take it. Just stared at it like it was poisoned.

"I need a new chef," I continued. "Someone with skill. Control. Fire. You fit."

"And in return?"

"In return," I said, voice smooth, "you work for me. You cook what I tell you, when I tell you. You don't ask questions. You keep your head down. You take the paycheck and the bonus that comes with it-enough to cover the surgery. Maybe even the hospital stays."

He folded his arms. "And what's the catch?"

"There's always a catch," I admitted. "You work for me, you're inside my world now. And that world is sharp and cold and bleeding red at the seams."

I leaned in. "You cross me, and no hospital in the country will be able to put you back together."

He stared at me, eyes dark, unreadable. "So, I'm buying my mother's life with my soul. That it?"

"No," I said, soft but steady. "You're buying time. That's all anyone ever does in this business."

He finally took the card, looked at it once, then tucked it into his pocket.

"I'm not wearing some fancy chef hat for you. I cook my way."

"You'll cook my way," I said coolly. "But if you're as good as I think you are, we might find some common ground."

He started walking away, stopped halfway, then looked back over his shoulder.

"You don't scare me, Carlo."

I smiled faintly. "You should be scared of what happens if you say no."

As he disappeared into the shadows, I leaned against the alley wall and closed my eyes for a moment.

I had him.

Not completely. But it was a start.

And the best games? They always started slow. Which make it fun.