Page 4 of Bleed (Two Wheeled Psychos #4)

“Ahh there he is, the man himself!” Valentino Carlucci calls out as I walk into the massive kitchen and toss my riding gloves down on the butcher block counter. “Early as usual.”

“Yep. My knives come back from the smith?” I ask him as he leans his pinstripe suit covered, broad shouldered body against the wall near the doorway to the dining room.

His thick black hair is slicked back, and his appearance is nothing short of polished, as always.

Even the flower in his lapel is crisp and fresh, with a drop of dew on its unfurled petals.

If he were older he would look like the quintessential mafia godfather, but his youth just makes him look like a pompous rich playboy, which he obviously is.

A good paying one though, and one who has had my back since the family took me in.

I could definitely work for worse people.

“They’re sharper than sharp, just how you like them.” He says with a knowing smile as he rubs his arched eyebrow with the pad of his thumb. “Later we’ll discuss your next assignment, for now I’ll leave you to your thing.”

“Any hints?”

“Just wait. You’ll love the surprise.” He laughs as he pushes away from the wall and leaves me alone in my stainless steel and tile kitchen with all my newly sharpened blades.

The swinging saloon doors haven’t even stopped tapping against their frame before I’m stripping off my jacket and tossing it over the top knob on the coat rack in the corner.

Rolling up my sleeves, I wash my hands at the large steel basin sink, grab a bar towel, and dry them off.

Throwing the terry cloth over my shoulder where it will stay until it’s soiled and needs to be replaced, I click on the stereo on the counter and get to work.

My preferences for sleek, uncluttered, and clean are paramount in my professional kitchen.

From the polished doors of the walk-in fridge and freezer to the oiled wooden chopping blocks, and all the shiny surfaces in between.

The island in the middle of the room, with its own prep sink, is where I like to do my morning routine, and I’m humming along with the radio as I grab the veggies I want from their baskets and chuck them onto the counter.

“There you are my beauties.” I say, leaning forward over the food, looking lovingly at my knives as they hang tips down on the magnetic strip that runs the length of the raised ledge of the island. “Come to papa.”

My favorite one is the plain looking, perfectly balanced, full tang chef’s knife.

With its straight edge that’s razor sharp, and a soft black grip, it cuts perfectly and feels good in my grip for hours on end.

Too bad she’s too large to conceal easily or I would absolutely use her for my other job.

Hanging over the counter on the order line is a card with the day’s scheduled specials.

I know what they are, I wrote the list yesterday before heading out to the club and as I trace my finger down the list of items needed, I spin the knife in my other hand then stab it in to the wooden prep surface, watching the handle vibrate back and forth.

“Peppers, onions, scallions, mushrooms, tomatoes, yada yada yada.” I say out loud as I begin slicing and dicing with a speed unmatched by most other professional chefs.

I love the sound of the blade tapping the cutting board, and the feel of the foods easily slicing apart in my hands. The way the tomatoes almost bleed when I make super thin filets makes me grin and pop one in my mouth with a satisfied sigh. It’s sweet and citrusy, and cool on my tongue.

As the songs coming from the stereo get harder and faster, I chop and slice more aggressively, making tiny pieces easy for sautéing and cooking rapidly.

In a commercial kitchen speed is your ally, just like when you’re taking out a mark sometimes.

Rapid death is occasionally the way to go, and I wonder if the next project that Valentino and his uncle have for me will be a quick and smooth process too.

Yeah but you like slow and painful too. Don’t lie to yourself.

Chuckling quietly to the voice in my head, I nod and continue on, making quick work of the task at hand.

“I do.” I say as I pause to balance the knife by its tip on my forefinger, then throw it up into the air, catch it, and go back to cutting with lightning speed.

I’m lost in my work when the other staff starts to file in. My sous chef, Antoni

o,

comes in first and silently wraps his white apron around his black clad waist, smiling at me as he goes right to his chores of setting up the prep stations and firing up the ovens and flat tops.

“Morning.” I say to him as he brushes against my back, wiggling himself between me and the range behind me.

“Morning boss man.” He replies, stopping to look over my shoulder at the array of things I’ve already prepared. “Good night last night?”

“Excellent one.”

“Good to hear.” He says with a brotherly clap to my shoulder before going back to his things.

In no time the wait staff, line cooks, and support staff file in, one at a time, all looking tired and like they don’t want to be here.

I’ll never understand the mentality of the younger crowd nowadays.

They bitch when there’s no work or money to be had, yet they complain about coming to a job where they make bank and can be themselves.

For a tight-assed man, I run a pretty open kitchen because I like to enjoy my work, and I feel my people should too. The sour puss looks on their faces every morning really grinds my gears with how lenient I really am with them. They would never survive in another kitchen.

“Good morning everyone. Let’s be a little chipper today, okay?” I call out to the room that’s louder and busier which each addition that treads in through the saloon doors.

The radio is cranked louder by one of the dishwashers, and the mood brightens up a bit as we all fall into place in our stations, getting ready for the long day ahead of us.

The family will be arriving soon for their daily breakfast, and I scoop up a pile of mixed peppers and mushrooms and toss them on the flat top for the line cooks.

“Western omelets, sausage, home fries, and toast. I want at least ten orders up in five.” I say, leaving them to their work, wiping my hands off on the towel on my shoulder.

My staff, once their moving and grinding, work well together, minus the regular cattiness of a group of men together.

Sometimes I think they’re worse than women, until I hear the gossip and chatter coming from the front of the house from the gaggle of waitresses.

As they turn the chairs over from the tables, and lay out the rolled flatware in place, they talk amongst themselves about last night’s events, picking fun at each other about the amount they drank and the stupidity that ensued in their little group.

A few glances land on me as I cross the dining room and head outside the front doors for a smoke and some fresh morning air.

I can feel them piercing into my back as I ignore them, focusing more on keeping myself centered and ready for the day.

Besides, I don’t fuck those I work with, it’s bad ju-ju, even if some of them are smoking fucking hot.

The bell above the door chimes out brightly as I step outside, finding Valentino leaning up against the brick facade, his foot up on the wall behind him, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips.

“Another nail in our coffins?” I ask, popping a menthol cig in my mouth, lighting it with my favorite Zippo, and enjoying the first taste of the mint and butane.

“Exactly.” He replies with a large cloud of smoke billowing from his mouth and nostrils. “In this life, we gotta choose our own death before someone does it for us.”

“Ain’t that the truth?”

The air has warmed up with the full sunrise, but the breeze still blows.

The small amount of leaves that do fall from the trees this time of year have already dropped, and they swirl around our feet like confetti.

You can smell the fall in the air, the scent of decay tinging the crisp wind.

It’s a sign that the year will be coming to a close soon, and so will another record of mine, the most kills in a calendar year.

In silence we enjoy the peace and quiet, dragging on our smokes and flicking the ashes that blow away before hitting the ground. It’s a nice thing that Valentino breaks when he throws down his smoke, crushes it with his polished shoe, and turns to me.

“They call her the ‘Recluse’.” He says simply, then reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a thickly stuffed envelope of cash. “Everyone else has failed, and Uncle wants it done within the week.”

“As in the Scarpino family?” I ask, blowing streams of smoke from my nose as I flip through the money and tuck the envelope in my back pants pocket. “I hear she’s untouchable.”

“Get it done.” He grunts and turns from me, heading back inside, leaving me alone to finish my cigarette in a giddy glee.

God, do I love a motherfucking challenge, and you my dear, you are it.

The rest of the day goes by lightning fast as the family arrives and the food starts moving out of my kitchen.

I’m distracted in my regular work from the thoughts and ideas I’m already making for how to hunt, find, and end the “Recluse”.

She’s the ghost of the Scarpino family, the one who supposedly holds the place of sole heir to the family’s fortune, but no one has ever seen her in person, and some people even think she doesn’t actually exist but in their imaginations.

If you do exist, my dear, I will find you, and you will not get a choice between clean and easy or hard and dirty. I want it all dirty with you baby.

“Hey boss man!” One of my dishwashers calls across the kitchen over the clamor of dishes rattling and utensils scraping pans. “You’re wanted up front.”

Wiping my hands off on the towel and handing my pan over to my sous chef, I leave the kitchen with a smirk. I know what this is. It’s the meeting with the head of the family, Mr. Salvatore Carlucci and the details I’m going to need to carry out his order.

The dining room is bustling with the whole extended family around the large, white linen covered tables. The children run around the room, weaving in and out of the waitstaff, causing a ruckus that no one interferes with because it keeps them occupied and out of the adult conversations.

Soft Italian instrument music filters through the speakers hidden in the corners behind realistic looking greenery that the staff cleans on the daily, and flatware clinks quietly across the porcelain plates.

You would never know by looking around the restaurant that this is the wealthiest and most dangerous criminal enterprise ever to creep under the federal law’s radar.

God, I love this fucking family.

I think to myself as I dodge little Jimmy and his twin sister Nadine between the two head tables where Salvatore sits, flanked by his two nieces, Angelica and Monica.

“Damien!” Salvatore calls out to me boisterously, reaching his arms out from his seat for a hug before I’ve even rounded the table to him.

His pure white hair is slicked back, and his pin stripe suit is tailored perfectly to his slightly chunky frame. His dark brown eyes are alight with joy, as they always are, and with the neatly trimmed beard on his face he almost looks like a well put together mafia Santa.

“Mr. Carlucci.” I say, leaning over and giving him a one-armed hug, trying not to wrinkle his ten-thousand-dollar suit, nor crush the carnation in its lapel.

“Damien, after all these years, I still have to remind you to call me Sal. When are you ever going to loosen up around me?”

“Never Sir.” I chuckle, grabbing a chair from behind me and pulling it to the table.

Sitting down in it backwards, facing him, I rest my arms across the back of it and place my chin in them, watching him enjoy his meal with his family, wondering how he manages it all, especially with all the losses the family has taken over the past few years, including the deaths of his three sons.

“You’re family, you know.”

“I know Sir.” I sigh, enjoying the little reprieve from the bustle and busyness of the kitchen. “You have details for me?”

“Always all business. Eat, relax, enjoy.” He says, grabbing a large plate of eggs, sausage, bacon, and home fries and sliding it in front of me. “Have some of your own cooking. It’s the best you know.”

“Thank you Sir.” I say, taking the plate graciously even though I’m really not hungry, because no one says “no” to Salvatore Carlucci.

I’m just taking my first bite when he lowers his voice and leans in closer to me, close enough I can smell the spiciness of his very subtle cologne.

“The Recluse.” He all but whispers. “If anyone can find her it’s you.”

“Do you have anything for me to go on?” I ask, taking a bite of the eggs and enjoying how perfect they really are. I am the best chef after all.

“She’s the sole heir to the Scarpino fortune. The daughter of Michael and Bethany. Rumor has it she’s been overseas the past few years, moving between their properties in Barcelona, Paris, and the homeland in Tuscany.”

“What does she look like, do we know?”

“It changes. She’s perfected being able to blend in wherever she goes. Her father has taught her well, as has her supposed boyfriend, Jason something.”

“A boyfriend? So she doesn’t travel alone?”

“No.” He says, looking down at my plate and smiling when he sees that while we’ve talked I’ve polished off everything and not left a crumb behind.

“Anything else?” I ask, wiping my mouth with one of the gold edged, cream colored linen napkins from the table.

“Only that you may already know her.”

“Oh?” I say, my eyebrows shooting up, my attention fully set on his face as he nods slowly.

“How I don’t know, but again, all I have a rumors.”

“Well, none of my acquaintances are ummm, family orientated.” I chuckle. “So maybe the rumors aren’t true at all.”

“The only one I believe, is that she’s here now, in the states, maybe even local.

Her father is ill, and he might not live much longer.

She has to be here to sign the papers for her inheritance if he passes, and I know sure as shit no one would pass up that fortune.

Even if she knows it’s dangerous to come stateside, she’ll be here for the money. ”

“Well, then I’ll start looking tonight.”