Jennifer Probst - All the Way

His younger brother shrugged. “Why would I be mad at you? You’re perfect. You leave the family and become rich. You travel around the world and see exotic places. Then when you decide to come home, Pop flings open his arms and gives over the restaurant. Hell, you even know how to save a man’s life. Who can compete?”

Gavin leaned over and plucked a cigarette from the pack. The hell with it. He was tired of being the smoking police. Brando opened his mouth to protest, but fascination seemed to win as he watched Gavin take a long drag.

“You’re right,” he said. “I do sound perfect, don’t I? But I took the easy route. I left. You stayed. You gave Pop hope you’d run the restaurant and love it the way he does. I’m only the guy with the money.” Regret coursed through him at the loss. “Pop wants to see you go to college, get an education, and come back and kick ass. This is your inheritance, Brando. I’m just trying to keep it going until you claim it.”

Brando frowned. “But Pop always said Mia Casa was yours.”

A grim smile curved his lips. “I gave up my opportunity when I left. I want to use my money to make it great again, but Pop always said a restaurant is only sustained through heart. You’re the heart, Brando.”

“I screwed up.” Self-disgust flicked through his words. “I want to do better, but I’m worried all the time. Afraid if I don’t give Tracey enough time, she’ll leave me. Afraid I’ll just be a glorified waiter instead of the real owner. I’m not responsible enough to inherit Mia Casa.”

The truth of his brother’s fear hit deep and reminded him so much of his own worries. Trapped by the same daily routine. Terrified of failure and craving to make his own mark, in his own way. He rarely had the opportunity to talk straight to his younger brother, especially after he left for so many years.

Gavin dragged in a breath. “Listen up. You’re supposed to be a bit irresponsible. Hell, you just graduated high school, Brando, give yourself a break. When I started, I was a waiter for a long time—that’s how you learn the business, from the ground up. But you’re not running away. You want to study, stay, learn. And I believe you can.”

His brother flicked the ash and seemed to contemplate his words. “Yeah, but you do things,” he burst out. “Back inside, I knew that man was choking. I saw him, and I should have been able to do something. Instead, I just stood there and watched. I couldn’t move. If you hadn’t been there he would have—” he turned his head away.

Gavin kept his voice gentle. “Do you think at seventeen years old I could have done any different? That was an intense scene, and sometimes you shut down. Shit happens. Dominick was also in the room, and he had the same problem. I may have been able to move, but I was scared out of my mind.”

“You were?”

“Hell, yes, do you think I’m Superman? I wasn’t sure I could get the thing out of his throat, and then I’d be responsible for his death.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Brando flung the butt on the ground and crushed it beneath his shoe. “Did Pop see any of the scene?”

“No, he was in the kitchen with Tony.”

“Are you gonna tell him?”

“No reason to.”

Brando nodded. “Thanks.”

“Nothing to tell. Of course, if he catches you smoking, you’re screwed.”

“He smokes with his posse.”

Gavin rolled his eyes. “He’s just showing off for them. He’s always been against cigarettes.”

“I only have one when I’m stressed. I don’t like it much, anyway.”

“Okay. I better get inside to Miranda.” He opened the door but his brother’s voice made him turn back around. “Yeah?”

Brando hesitated. “I know Pop forgives you for leaving. So do I.”

Relief rushed through him. He hadn’t realized how badly he wanted his brother to understand his regrets. The distance between them melted away. He remembered the day he left. Brando stood on the curb with ferocious resentment and something deeper. Something that kept him up at night the same way Miranda haunted him.

Betrayal.

He’d hurt the people he loved the most. Back then, he didn’t give a shit. Today, he knew he’d give up all his money to build back the foundation with them both. His throat tightened with wimpy emotion but he forced himself to sound casual. “Thanks.”

“Gavin?”

“Hmm?”

“I think Miranda Storme will eventually forgive you, too.”

“God, I hope so. I broke up with her in an email.”

His brother winced. “Bad move, dude. She still looks into you, though. You probably need to really dig deep. Tell her all your feelings and stuff. Girls like that.”

Gavin laughed. “I’m trying. But I’m dealing with a ticking time bomb. She knows I need to leave soon, so she’s afraid to trust me.”

Brando crinkled his brow. “I don’t get it. Why start something with her you may not be able to continue?”

“I’m gonna take her with me.” The truth smacked him like a wet towel. Until he uttered the words, he hadn’t known how he’d handle the problem of his job. He had a few weeks left to gain back her trust. Her love. Then he’d ask her to come with him.

Miranda never had the ability to travel and see the world. He imagined showing her various cultures and feasting on gourmet food. She’d probably love writing for an international magazine about her experiences. They’d build a new life on their own terms.

Yes. This was a win/win.

“Good plan. But I don’t think she’ll do the second review.”

Gavin grinned. “You’re probably right. See you back in there.”

“Gavin?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

His chest tightened and he tried to make sure his voice didn’t sound girly. “No problem.”

Gavin shut the door behind him.

…

He had saved a life.

Miranda sipped her Chianti in the new lounge and let the lyrics of Tony Bennett soothe her ears. The way Gavin reacted to the crisis gave her a glimpse of both the new and old Gavin. Smoothly in control, he was still able to wrest the lead in a situation and follow it through. That part never surprised her.

It was the other half. His true humbleness from the gesture. In the past, he wore his arrogance like a cloak, sure of himself in every area. The way he quickly hurried after his brother and didn’t linger on his current hero status told her he’d changed.

Which did not bode well for her decision to never see him again.

A familiar voice jolted her thoughts.

“Miranda Eats?”

Her gaze flew up to a face she would have rather avoided. Especially tonight. “Allison Speaks.” She practically growled the word of her die-hard competitor. The woman hated her and focused her mission on sabotaging Miranda’s career. Allison Wheaton, food critic extraordinaire and mortal enemy, stood before her. Her proper appearance even on a Friday evening bespoke a woman always on the hunt for the next great find. Her signature black consisted of a pencil skirt, proper pumps, and a silk blouse. Elegant, understated, sophisticated. Too bad her dark eyes were flat and mean as a shark about to bite.

“Slumming, Storme?”

“Following me again, Wheaton?” she drawled.

The woman drew herself up and flicked her a cold glance. “As if. We were at the Met and decided to stop for a drink.”

Interest stirred. “ Pagliacci ?”

“Yes. It was divine, as I thought.”

“How was the final arietta?” The opera was her second favorite, haunting and constructed for the real diehards of opera. Its earthy, raw nature bespoke its Italian heritage, and the tragic ending always gave her sleepless nights.

Allison lost her edge for a moment and sighed. “Breathtaking. Canio has a voice as dark and deep as bittersweet chocolate. And Nedda is able to linger and lengthen a note for what seemed like decades. I’m so ruined I needed other music to drown out her voice.”