Page 85 of Aftertaste

“Yo, ballbusters! We’re days out and I don’t got soigné from any one of your stations. You got time to run your mouths, your food better be on point. Miguel, you got four buffalo soups on the fly. Let’s go,papi chulo! Stephanie, I want livers—seven. You gonna give me a look? Make it eight. Ricky Martin—three tuna rye. And I walk in that pantry it better fucking sparkle.”

“Heard!”

“Yes, Chef!”

“On it, Chef!”

But privately, in Kostya’s office, Rio told him to get his shit together.

“You’re leading them into battle. You gotta show them you’re in control. That you got this. That you gotthem. You do that, they’ll follow you anywhere. But you fall, they fall. Feel me?”

THE NIGHT BEFOREpreviews, Kostya lingered in the restaurant long after his staff had gone home. He double- and triple-checked the dining room—Were the places properly set, the napkins folded, the silverware polished? Were there typos on the menus, nicks in the furniture, scuffs on the floor?—until it could have earned the approval of a stodgy English butler. He inventoried the pantry, the walk-in, the bar, running all sorts of scenarios and hypotheticals to make sure there’d be enough food. He turned all the lights in the place on and off, checking for dead bulbs, for short circuits, for fire risk—a painful snatch in his chest for Frankie as he tested the fire safety latch inside the walk-in—and then did the same with the sinks, the toilets, the water heaters, looking for leaks.

When he was done, Kostya stood in the dark in DUH, inhiskitchen, and held a long breath. It was happening. The air felt thick with what he was about to do, this thing he was about to unleash, to usher into the world. There was something almost palpable in the room, like if he reached out just far enough, he could touch it.

He thought of his father, of how it would have felt to bring him here, cook him a meal, show him what he’d done. He would have been proud; he would have told him every single thing tasted delicious. He might still, when Kostya brought him back; next week, he’d promised himself. Once they opened.

He thought of Frankie, pain unfurling in his chest, a power blend of sorrow and guilt. It should have been him there instead, helming Manhattan’s hot new culinary kingdom. Kostya owed it to Frankie to make this place matter. To keep his flame alive.

He thought of the ghosts. All the ones he’d returned to life, their spirits overflowing with gratitude. All the ones he’d failed to resurrect, the unfulfilled promises of Hell’s Kitchen Supper Club. All the Living he’d helped and harmed, the diners who walked away floating and theones who slunk back in grief, maybe more than before, because he’d given them hope that had never materialized. He didn’t want to make anyone feel that again.

Just stay the course, he reminded himself. The aftertastes had led him this far. And they’d take him to the finish line.

The 6 Train blistered suddenly past the windows, casting the kitchen in thunderous sound and strobing light. Kostya watched it race, his face reflected in the panes of glass, hovering among the gleaming counters, the knives and pans and tools. His own expression surprised him. It was the face of someone at home. Easy. Relaxed. Happy.

And then the 6 was gone, its light slurped into the mouth of the tunnel, the whole event so brief that he hadn’t even had time to look up, to lift his gaze just a few feet higher. If he had, he might’ve seen the other faces reflected in the windows’ panes, all the ghosts casing his kitchen, gathering like a storm.

WHEN KOSTYA FINALLYcrawled home it was close to 3:00 AM. He stumbled through his dark apartment, stripping clothes in a bread-crumb trail. He was exhausted, and he’d have to be back at DUH in just a few hours for prep, but sleeping felt impossible now. This time tomorrow, either he’d be reprising this walk, peeling off his chef’s coat, his checks, his steel-toed kitchen shoes, in abject defeat,orhe’d be across town, drinking heavily, hugging everybody, toasting his triumph with his entire staff.

He paused at his bedroom to pull off a sock and froze.

Maura’s skin was so pale in the moonlight, her body so still it barely looked like she was breathing. She was curled in his bed, violet hair across his pillow, fast asleep.

He hadn’t seen her all week—his schedule had been crazy, and they’d agreed he needed focus—but he’d missed her, more even than he realized, and seeing her there, waiting for him, sent warmth flooding through his chest. His heart felt full. Bursting.

She rolled over, blinked awake. “Honey, you’re home.” She gave him a sleepy smile.

“Honey, you’re here.” He sat down on the bed beside her.

“I wanted to be with you. Tomorrow’s a big day.”

“Yeah.” He released a puff of air. “Real big.”

“It’ll be amazing.” She scooted up, leaned against him.

“I hope.”

“It will. Look at everything you’ve done.”

He gave a queasy smile.

“Hey, I know it’s hard, doing this without your dad. And Frankie. The people you love who—”

“You’re right here,” he whispered.

He felt it all welling inside him, joy in one hand, grief in the other. His jaw got tight. His eyes stung. His body ached, spent, but he was wide, wide awake.

“I—I love you, too,” she whispered back.

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