Page 4 of Indulging Temptation (Tempting the Heart #1)

SANTINO

“ W hat the fuck was that?” I spew into the phone as I storm out of the news network office.

“An interview,” my agent says, rather dryly. I know he’s probably sick of my antics, but tough shit. That’s what I pay Marty to do, quite literally deal with my bullshit. “An interview that you once again stormed out of because it didn’t go your way.”

“It’s not about getting my way.” I pinch my cellphone between my cheek and shoulder, growing more irritated by the second. “I left because I’m tired of people harping on the past. I want… no, I need people to see me for who I am. A chef who…”

Marty sighs, interrupting me with a condescending tone.

“Yes, Santino, I know. Spare me the dramatics, okay? People see you as a chef. That’s not the problem.

What is the problem however, is that you are a chef who can’t seem to avoid making headlines in gossip blogs and newspapers for all the wrong reasons. ”

I don’t respond. There’s nothing I can say to defend myself.

He’s right. And even though I realize that, it doesn’t make it any easier to hear.

I skate one hand into my jacket pocket that has my lighter, as my free hand grabs a pre-roll from the case I always keep on me.

Marty must hear the flick of the lighter because the moment the paper begins to burn, and I’m about to suck in that glorious much needed hit of Sour Diesel, he resumes talking.

“Are you smoking?”

“Yep,” I manage, as I hold in the hit I just took, letting it settle in a bit before I exhale.

“Weed?” He asks. Judgement ripe within his tone.

Fully exhaling the pent-up smoke, I reply, “Also, yep.”

“Santino,” he scolds.

“Marty,” I mock in the same irritating singsong tone he has with me. “Calm down, weed is recreationally legal now in New York, I’m not doing anything wrong. Chill.”

“Yeah, for now you’re not,” he says, swooping in with a quick quip.

“I’m not.” I drop the sarcasm in my voice.

“I was asked to come on the food and lifestyle segment on the news tonight to talk about the restaurant, and any upcoming competitions I’ll be on, as well as to do a quick demo on my fusion cooking.

Which they loved, by the way. I told you the pernil-filled ravioli would be a hit.

I think I’m going to add them to the menu by the way… ”

Marty cuts me off. “Santino, focus.”

“Fine. What I was getting at is that my appearance on the show tonight was to focus on my business. Not to discuss that shit with DeStefano. It’s been damn near six months. Enough is enough. People need to move on already.”

“Have you? Because you weren’t very friendly towards him at the last competition you both were in. That was televised, might I add. The press had a field day with that one.”

“Whatever. He’s an asshole, but you should be proud of me.”

“Why is that Tino? Enlighten me, please.”

“Because I held back last time I saw him. Since what I really wanted to do was bring the cheese grater he was using to his face, but I didn’t. I’m cured, Marty. See. Nothing to worry about.”

I laugh, but Marty is not receptive to my joke.

“Be that as it may, the fact remains that Luca DeStefano is your colleague, as well as being one of the most respected…”

“Unless you’re going to finish that sentence by saying one of the most respected and most pretentious assholes there is in the food industry, I don’t want to hear it.”

I suck in another hit, allowing the weed to filter through my lungs as I think on all the ways that I despise Luca DeStefano.

He thinks he’s all fucking that because he studied at Le Cordon Bleu, and he doesn’t let a second go by that he doesn’t remind everyone of the pedigree he comes from.

Marty isn’t pleased with my hostility for him, and he continues droning on and on about how I need to play nice, and something about an apology.

Over my fucking dead body will I ever make amends with him.

I can let a lot slide. The obnoxious bragging he does with his culinary training, and his irritating presence, sure. But what he did in Miami? Absolutely not.

I can sense how frustrated Marty is with me. He’s doing that thing he always does when he’s trying to maintain his composure, huffing away as if he just ran a marathon from being so worked up.

“You good, Marty?”

“I will be once you cut the shit. Your feelings for DeStefano aside, you both are staples on the Culinary Network. It doesn’t bode well for anyone to have two of their stars beefing.

So yes, because of what you did in Miami by punching him in the fucking face — in a very public setting, need I remind you — it’s not exactly a surprise that when anyone gets a chance to interview you, they will inquire about it.

Just as they did tonight on the news segment. ”

“Yeah, I got it,” I answer begrudgingly.

“Good. And speaking of…” Here we go. “You still never told me what possessed you to punch him in the first place.”

It’s not a matter of what possessed me, it’s who possessed me.

My disdain for DeStefano aside, the truth is, my fist would’ve crashed into the jaw of whoever was standing next to who I can’t have.

I’m used to dealing with assholes like DeStefano, but where I draw the line is when assholes like him mess with my friends and family. Then all bets are off, and that very much includes my best friend’s sister.

Especially her.

No one sleazy like him belongs near her. She’s too good for that. Too good for me.

It’s been six long, agonizing months, and I still can’t unsee what I was forced to witness at the club in Miami.

Just thinking back to that night when DeStefano was near her, whispering in her ear, touching Lorena’s lower back, all while flaunting it in my fucking face.

I swear, it makes me want to punch him in that smug face of his all over again.

Almost as much as I want to punch myself for denying her prior to witnessing him near her.

I only turned her down because I had to. She’s off-limits. A harsh reality that I must remind myself of every fucking day.

“No reason,” I finally respond. Purposely avoiding his question. Same way I have for the last six months and will continue to until maybe — hopefully — time will heal this gaping wound I’ve created between Lorena and me.

“Bull-fucking-shit. Without me even being there I know whatever it was that got into you and made you lash out the way you did, was personal. And the longer you avoid whatever the root cause is, you’re never going to change.”

Regret mixed with visions of what happened begin to consume me.

All I see is the pain and embarrassment I caused her that night.

From the tears that threatened her irises when I turned her down like a fucking coward, to the ones that streamed down her face when security separated me and DeStefano after I punched him.

It’s all fused into my memory. “Let’s move on, Marty,” I say, needing to switch topics.

“I wish you would.”

Yeah, me too.

“Anyway, my point is, people will continue to ask because it stirs interest and boosts their ratings.”

“Fuck their ratings. I’m done with interviews too, for the time being. I don’t need the aggravation. I have enough on my plate, and they’re all bullshit anyway. I’m tired of being made to feel like a spectacle.”

“Then stop acting like one.”

“Yeah, well…” Marty begins but stops himself, just as I take another hit, welcoming the subtle high I’m starting to get before I extinguish the joint and place it back in my case. He breathes heavily into the phone, but doesn’t continue.

“Just spit it out, I know every time you sigh like that you have something to say.”

“Fine, let me just get to it. Apolito Market wants to pull the cookware line.”

“Excuse me? Why?”

“The morality clause.”

“What about it?”

“You breached it.”

“Says who?”

“Apolito’s.”

“That’s bullshit. We have been working on this line for months. And I don’t remember anything about that when I signed it.”

“Well, it’s in there. They already weren’t happy after the DeStefano incident, and expressed their concern with your short fuse , for lack of a better term. Now, it’s only a matter of time before they see you having a hissy fit on television this evening.”

“It wasn’t a hissy fit. I was creating a boundary.”

“Storming off a segment, a live segment at that, isn't a boundary, Santino. It’s showing that you can’t compose yourself. And in business, a risk is a pass.”

“Let’s agree to disagree on that one.”

I truly am my own worst enemy. I’ve always been one to act first, think later.

It’s the only way I’ve known how to operate.

And it’s what has helped me thrive under the pressures of the culinary world, both in the kitchen and in competitions.

The only time I’ve shown restraint was with Lorena.

It’s also the only time I’ve been full of regret for not acting on impulse.

I’m sure if I went to therapy like my aunt and uncle suggested years ago when my mother passed away, and my family as I knew it crumbled, there would be a plethora of things to unpack.

Like the root of me being the way that I am.

But whatever the reasoning, from a young age, I learned the hard way that sometimes life throws things at us that require us to act right away as a way of preservation — of survival .

It’s helped me get to where I am career wise.

Successful in all ventures I have tried, all except the one that matters most… love.

Still, the more I realize Marty is only saying what I need to hear, the more it stings. I’ve worked too hard to let my self-sabotaging ways ruin my livelihood, and if I’m being honest, my lifeline.

“Whatever but…” Marty goes on talking about a whole bunch of things that I should be listening to, but my attention drifts when my phone vibrates with a text message from my brother, Dante.

I don’t bother putting Marty on speaker, he’s talking loud enough that I can make out bits and pieces of what he’s saying.