1
ROMAN
Islice the truffle with the precision of a surgeon, each paper-thin round perfect, making my sous chef, Chris, curse.
“Now you’re just showing off.”
I smirk at him as I finish the dish of butter-poached lobster with caramelized sweet corn, bacon, and parsnip puree with a truffle crown. The sauce only I know the recipe for takes three days to reduce and settle, which is why we only serve this dish here at South Paw on Fridays. Critics have called it transformative, and customers drop two hundred bucks to experience it.
“Showing off implies competition.”
He chokes on a half-baked laugh. “God, you’re such a dick. Does that come with your MICHELIN Star or your James Beard Award?”
I shrug at his sarcasm. “That’s for you to decide, not me. I don’t care if I’m a dick as long as the dish is perfect. Finish this up and get it out.”
“Yes, Chef,” he says, though there’s no heat in it.
Around me, the kitchen hums with the sort of chaotic perfection I thrive on. It’s a well-tuned machine whereeveryone knows their place and does their job without me having to bark down their throats. I own three restaurants here in Boston and bounce between all of them, but my Fridays are always spent here.
Tonight, I’m especially wired, and it has nothing to do with my restaurants or cooking. For now, I settle the adrenaline anxious to pump through my veins and focus on what I’m here to do.
“Behind,” I call out as I slide past a line cook.
“Chef, the Pierce party is requesting to meet you,” Eliza, the front-of-house manager, tells me. “Their daughter is with them. She’s that influencer model girl everyone is obsessed with. She asked if you’d pose for pictures with her and if you’re single.”
I throw her a side-eye, and she tosses her hands up.
“Don’t shoot the messenger. I told them I’d tell you and see what you’d say.”
“Tell them I’m busy making their dinner and I don’t do meet and greets, especially setups.” I’m already turning my back to her as I go to taste a sauce that’s simmering a bit too rapidly. She leaves it at that, knowing well enough not to argue with me. Celebrity chef status comes with annoying expectations, including appearances, glad-handing, and Instagram posts. Being a Fritz from a family of famous billionaires gets you that too, so for me, it’s doubled.
I don’t do any of them, and it’s earned me a reputation as a dick, just as Chris said.
But as I told him, I don’t care. I got into it for the food. Not the other bullshit. Europe is always better with the celebrity stuff, and it’s yet another reason I’m looking forward to moving in three months.
Three hours later, the cleaning staff is doing their thing, and I’ve discussed inventory with both my bar and food managers. In my office, I shed my white coat and pull on aclean black T-shirt I already know I won’t be wearing for long and my leather jacket.
My muscles vibrate with anticipation, and without a word to any remaining staff, I head out the back door and straight onto my motorcycle.
The old rope warehouse isn’t far from South Paw, tucked in a part of South Boston that developers haven’t touched yet. From the outside, it looks abandoned, dark, with crud-crusted windows and dirty brick. But anyone who knows this area knows it’s anything but abandoned. Seamus O’Brien owns it and therefore no one fucks with it.
I park along the side and head over to the metal door manned by two discreetly armed men I wouldn’t be excited to see in the ring.
“Roman,” one greets me and steps aside to allow me entrance.
The inside space isn’t all that different from the outside. The concrete floors are gritty and worn, the overhead lights dull and likely a fire hazard. The air smells of money, sweat, and expensive leather. There are two full bars, one on each side of the ring, and so far there are about a hundred people milling about and eyeing me surreptitiously.
I spot Hayes and Forest talking to two guys, but once they spot me, they head over to me. Hayes is one of my lifelong friends, and Forest is my cousin, but more of a friend as well. It’s just them tonight as Crew can’t be caught here or he’d be kicked off the Boston Rebels—where he plays professional football as a tight end—and his twin, Quinn, and my other friend Skylar rarely attend my fights. Typically, it’s Hayes, Forest, and my best friend, Braelyn, but I don’t see her yet.
“Hey, man.” Forest gives me a fist bump, as does Hayes. “Supposed to be a big crowd tonight.”
“The guy you’re up against is also undefeated,” Hayes explains. “He’s also talking a lot of shit.”
“They always talk shit,” I say as I head into the back room to get myself ready and stay away from the anxious crowd.
“The action is heavy.” Forest leans against the wall, his eyes on his phone.
“If that’s so, put twenty grand down on me to knock him out before the sixth.”