Page 1 of Sinful Mafia Santa

1

AERYN

There are two kinds of people who go to an underground sex club the week before Christmas: The lonely and the curious.

Wait. There’s a third kind too: Chefs who need to blow off a little steam after furiously plating orders for the last seating on a busy Friday, four nights before the holiday.

“I’m absolutely knackered,” I say, the Irish coming out in my voice as I collapse into a chair in Will Lasker’s cluttered office. “And allIhad to do was shove mixed greens onto plates.”

“Bullshit,” Will says, sucking deep on his vape pen. “You are agoddess,Aeryn Reardon. You took over that salad station like you’ve worked here all your life. And you didn’t even break a sweat.”

Well, Ididstrip down to my black silk shell—Miu Miu for the win. My Alexander McQueen cardigan is draped over the back of my chair. My matching high-waist trousers are no worsefor wear, but I traded in my Louboutin heels for a spare pair of Will’s Crocs.

It’s been eight years since Will and I completed our coursework at the New York Culinary Institute. Even when Will was smoking cigarettes instead of vaping, he could taste the difference between orange and yellow bell peppers, blindfolded. Now, the salads he serves at Nourriture are works of art.

“Are you going to fire that shitehawk?” The man I stood in for showed up an hour late, higher than the Empire State Building.

“I already did,” Will says. “Want a full-time job?”

I laugh. “You can’t afford me. Besides, I have to be back in Chicago by Christmas Day.”

“Want a three-day job?” Will persists. He waggles his eyebrows at me. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

I laugh. “And how will you do that?”

“Come on,” he says, pushing back from his desk. “I’ll take you to Kynk.”

I snort. “You and I parted ways withkinkthe night you decided to fuck Jaxon Pearson in the classroom walk-in.”

“Kynk,” he says again, and he spells it. He doesn’t bother apologizing for Jaxon. Will and I are much better friends than we ever were lovers. And part of me always knew he preferred boys, even when we were dating.

“Sorry,” I say. “I don’t thinkKynkmade it onto TripAdvisor’s list of Top Ten New York Attractions.”

“There’s a reason for that,” Will says. “It’s the most exclusive sex club in all five boroughs.”

“But they let you in,” I point out.

“Iam a card-carrying member.”

“So not so exclusive then.”

“Do I need to remind you that I am the owner and chef de cuisine of the restaurantThe New York Timescalled ‘First in Class’ last year?”

Will doesn’t need to remind me. I’m still green with envy—greener than the kale microgreens I tweezed onto his salads for the last four hours. He’s living his dream here in Manhattan, while I’m stuck back in Chicago.

My week-long vacation to New York has been one last hurrah before I accept the inevitable and take my place in the Reardon family business. An obedient daughter, I’ve given notice at the Chicago Art Institute, telling them they need a new chef for their museum café.

It was never a Michelin-starred restaurant like Will’s, but it was a job I got on my own merit. I’ll miss it. A lot. I’ll never be as happy, fulfilling my obligations as to Chicago’s Irish mob.

“Hey,” Will croons, as if he realizes he touched a live nerve. “We don’t have to go.”

I force myself to laugh. “Friday night at a sex club in New York City with my gay ex-boyfriend? How can I possibly say no?”

“Have you been to one before?”

“What? You think Chicago is the boonies?”

“I thought maybe?—”