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I’m already halfway to the door when his voice stops me.

“Brandon?”

I turn, one hand on the doorknob. “Yeah?”

“Make them proud, little brother.”

I bolt.

The drive to Giovanni’s is a blur. It used to betheplace in the city, white tablecloths, three-month waiting list, and criticspractically begging for tables. Old man Giovanni ran that kitchen like a symphony until his heart gave out.

His son took one look at the legacy waiting for him and ran for the hills. The place has been gathering dust ever since, a shrine to what it once was. Everyone in the industry wondered why such prime real estate stayed locked up, why no other restaurateur swooped in to claim it.

Now the truth hits me like an egg hitting the counter, cracked wide open.

My father.

The whole damn time, he was sitting on it. Waiting. For me.

You have your mother’s gift. Her passion. Her ability to make people feel loved through food.

The key slides into the lock with a click, and the door creaks open, dust swirling in the light. My footsteps echo, stirring up memories as I step inside.

It’s all still here.

The bar stretches along the left wall, marble dulled by time but still elegant, still standing. The dining room is silent, but in my mind, I hear it—the low hum of conversation, the clink of cutlery, the echo of Giovanni barking orders.

The kitchen door swings open with a familiar squeak. I used to push through it a hundred times a night, sneaking peeks at the magic happening beyond.

Now, it’s mine.

The massive hood system. The six-burner ranges. The prep stations where I used to watch old Giovanni break down whole fish with the precision of a surgeon. Sure, it needs updating, probably a complete replacement of most equipment. But the bones… fuck, the bones are perfect.

I trail my fingers along a stainless steel counter, leaving tracks in the dust.

I see it.

Pans hissing. Knives hitting cutting boards in quick, sharp rhythms. Voices calling orders andYes, Chef!, the pulse of a kitchen in full swing.

This is what I’ve wanted since I was eight years old, standing on a milk crate next to Mom as she taught me how to make her marinara sauce. What I fought against because Dad made me think I had to choose between being his son and being myself.

Except he knew. He fucking knew all along.

My phone buzzes against my thigh.

Naomi: You okay? Elijah called.

I stare at the text, throat tight. How do I even begin to explain this?

Before I can ponder further, something catches my eye. A bottle of Macallan 18, untouched, pristine.

A folded note leans against it, his precise handwriting stark against the cream paper.To your dream. Love, Dad.

But it’s what’s behind the bottle that makes my heart stop. Fabric, yellowed with age, carefully folded. My fingers tremble as they close around the cotton, and I already know what it is before I unfold it.

Mom’s apron.

EMM still there in faded blue thread. Eleanor Marie Milton.

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