Breakfast with the Bosses

Marina

I finish cooking with my heart still somewhere up near my ears.

The eggs are fluffy, the veggies are perfectly maybe too perfectly diced, and the pancakes are golden like I actually know what I’m doing.

But then I hit a wall.

Because — uh — how exactly am I supposed to let them know that breakfast is ready?

There’s no little bell to ring. No staff swarming around.

Just me, standing in a kitchen that costs more than my entire neighborhood, with a stack of pancakes and zero clue what comes next.

I glance around like the walls might answer me.

They don’t.

Just me and my overcooked anxiety.

“Do I…? Do I just…?” I mutter to myself, wiping my hands on a towel. “Yell? Knock? Send a smoke signal?”

But before I can spiral into full-on panic, I hear it.

Footsteps.

Two sets.

And then they appear.

Both of them.

voice — walks in first.

His steps are… different.

Measured. Like he’s counting them.

His hand grazes the back of a chair as he passes, subtle but there. Like he’s making sure of his path.

I catch myself staring and snap my eyes away.

Focus, Marina. Rich people do weird things. Don’t question it.

Behind him comes his brother — and if the first man is cool water, this one is straight-up ice.

Phone at his ear, speaking in a rapid-fire language I don’t understand — Russian? Italian? Something sharp and slick, sliding off his tongue like a blade.

His face could’ve been carved out of marble: hard, smooth, and cold.

My throat goes dry.

Because even without looking directly at me, this one makes the air feel heavier. Like the walls are closing in just from him stepping into the room.

The calm one finds the table and pulls out a chair, his movements smooth but… careful.

Like he’s threading through invisible wires only he can see.

But again — rich, eccentric. I file it away under that category because my brain is too busy short-circuiting to make sense of anything else.

The phone guy finishes his call with a sharp word and pockets the device.

His eyes flick to me — just a glance, but it hits like a cold wind.

Dark. Piercing.

Like he sees too much.

“You cook fast,” he says, voice clipped but smooth. “Good.”

I swallow and try to smile.

“Uh… thanks. I try.”

His gaze already moves past me, dismissing me like I’m background noise.

Which, okay, fair — I’m the help here. But still. Ouch.

Meanwhile, the calm one tilts his head slightly as I bring the plates over.

His lips curve just a fraction.

“Smells good,” he murmurs. “Thank you, Miss Russo.”

The way he says my name — soft but firm — makes my cheeks go warm.

I hate that.

No, brain. We are not doing this right now.

“Enjoy,” I mumble, setting the plates down with way too much focus, like pancakes are suddenly the most important thing in the universe.

They sit.

And eat.

One with slow, measured movements — slicing his food neatly, like he’s following some internal rhythm.

The other with sharp efficiency — fast, no wasted motion, already glancing at his phone again between bites.

I stand there, awkwardly clutching my towel and trying to look anywhere but at them.

Because, seriously — the energy in this room could choke a person.

Two Men

One smooth and strangely calm.

The other cold and distant, like a storm waiting to break.

And me?

Just the broke chef who somehow wandered into this silent power play with no clue what the rules are.

“Enjoy your meal,” I manage to say again, voice too high, and start backing toward the kitchen like retreating is a survival tactic.

I don’t know what’s going on here.

Why they move the way they do.

Why the air feels like it’s crackling even though no one’s raising their voice.

All I know is that I’m suddenly very aware that this job?

Might be a whole lot more complicated than just flipping pancakes.

The second I retreat back into the kitchen and hear their low voices fade behind me, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

God, my chest feels tight.

Like I’ve been bracing for something and I don’t even know what.

I glance at the clock.

Still hours before lunch prep needs to start.

And honestly?

If I don’t get some air soon, I might pass out right here between the marble counters and the industrial stove.

So I do what any sane person would do

I sneak out the side door I spotted earlier and step into the garden.

And oh — it’s… beautiful.

Not in the soft, whimsical way you’d expect from a cozy backyard, but in that sharp, curated, money-has-no-limits kind of way.

Tall hedges trimmed with military precision. Stone pathways that wind like veins through the green. Flowers I can’t even name but know cost more than my monthly rent.

I wander a little, breathing in deep.

The air here feels different — fresh, cool, slightly sweet from the blossoms.

It calms the jittery beat of my heart, just a little.

I find a bench and sink onto it, letting my head tip back toward the sky.

Just five minutes.

Five minutes to feel normal before I go back in and pretend I’m totally cool with feeding two men who clearly own the world but look at people like they’re chess pieces.

Except — of course — the universe can’t even give me those five minutes.

Because I hear footsteps on the stone path.

Sharp, clipped. Coming closer.

I sit up straight just as he appears — him.

The cold one.

The man with the dark eyes and sharper tongue.

Phone at his ear again, his voice a low growl as he speaks rapid-fire words in that same foreign language.

His gaze flicks over me as he walks past, barely registering me.

Or so I think.

Because a beat later, he ends the call with a sharp word and tucks the phone away.

Then — to my utter horror — he turns back.

His eyes land on me like a spotlight.

Cold. Assessing.

His gaze doesn’t waver.

Like he’s peeling back layers I didn’t even know I had.

“Marina,” he repeats, testing the name like it’s a word he might decide to keep or discard.

“Italian?”

I nod. “Half. On my dad’s side.”

“Hmm.”

He doesn’t smile.

Doesn’t even soften.

Silence stretches between us, thick and heavy.

Like even the garden air goes still when he’s standing here.

I clear my throat, desperate to break it.

“Uh… I just came out for some air before I start on lunch. Hope that’s okay?”

His jaw ticks — just a flicker — before he says, “No one told you otherwise, did they?”

I blink. “No…?”

“Then it’s fine.”

His tone is flat. Final.

Like every word he says carries the weight of a verdict.

He steps closer, hands sliding into the pockets of his tailored slacks.

Not threatening — not quite — but there’s something about the way he moves.

Like a predator who doesn’t need to show his teeth to remind you he has them.

“You worked in private homes before?” he asks.

“No, sir,” I admit. “Restaurants. Cafés. Nothing like this.”

His gaze sharpens. “And you thought this was a good idea?”

I blink again, heat rising in my cheeks.

“I— I needed the job. And it pays well. And I cook. That’s… that’s what I do.”

His lips press into a thin line.

Like he’s amused and annoyed all at once.

“Simple,” he mutters. “You cook. That’s what you do.”

I don’t know if he’s mocking me or agreeing.

Maybe both.

“Yes,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “That’s what I do.”

Another beat of silence.

His eyes stay locked on mine, and for a second I forget how to breathe.

Then — just like that — he looks away.

Like the moment never happened.

Like I’m already back to being background noise.

“Don’t burn lunch,” he says coolly, turning to leave. “He hates that.”

And then he’s gone.

Footsteps fading down the path, phone already back at his ear as he barks out orders to some invisible world I can’t see.

I let out a shaky breath and slump back against the bench.

Well.

So much for getting some air.