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Three weeks of proving myself to a kitchen full of people, some nearly twice my age, and I’ve spent one night undoing all of it in a room the size of a pantry.

With a sigh, I walk into the beautiful chaos of the kitchen, pushing the thoughts of my boss to the back burner.

***

He doesn’t stay on the back burner.

For an entire weekend, I think about him. His lips on mine, his hands touching me, his breath harsh against my own. I spend an ungodly amount of time in my office looking the man up online, which is something I probably should have done long before I started working for him.

“Stop, Margot,” I scold myself. “It’s no use crying over spilled juice, or is it milk? Crap. Get it together.”

I bury my hands in my hair and groan, staring at the blank sheet I’m supposed to be working on. A menu for the coming week, and I haven’t written a goddamned thing. The light from the monitor is starting to make my eyes hurt and the coffee in my mug has no doubt gone cold by now.

I always work on the menus on Monday. It’s my only day off as the restaurant is open from Tuesday to Sunday. I come to the office, create the menu, head to the kitchen to check on the inventory, write down what’s needed, and then spend the rest of the day lounging in my hotel room since I haven’t found an apartment yet.

It’s simple. Tried and true.

Not today.

I minimize the page on my computer and click on the tab I left open. Bishop’s face pops up on the screen, those blue eyes I haven’t stopped thinking about all week staring holes into me. He looks younger in this picture, standing next to his twin, Pope Cassidy, the president of the Steel Sinners in Las Vegas.

It’s easy to tell them apart. They have the same build, the same dark hair, but the faces don’t match the way you’d expect from twins. Pope is heavier through the jaw, harder. Bishop’s features are finer, and there’s something in them the camera doesn’t like.

I think the title of the article is quite fitting: “The Dangerous Twins of Las Vegas.” There’s a lot of information online about Pope and how he runs one of the biggest casinos in Las Vegas, but I couldn’t find much on Bishop, other than that single article, which is dated five years ago.

Why? I find myself wondering why one twin is so obviously absent while the other runs what I’ve read was a family business.

What is he doing in Reno?

“Stop,” I scold myself again. Work. Yes.

I minimize the tab and bring up the sheet again, rolling my neck and cracking my knuckles as I start. I’m halfway through the menu when a sudden jarring clang echoes through the air, so loud it makes me jump in my seat. My head snaps up, and I strain my ear for more, but nothing else follows.

Okay, that’s creepy.

The sound clearly came from the kitchen, and since the restaurant is closed, no one is supposed to be in there. A rat, maybe? The horror of that thought alone sends me pushing my chair back. I head out to investigate, grabbing my coffee mug for a fresh refill—and in case I need to defend myself with something.

I would take an intruder over vermin.

As I round the corner, my eyes scan for any sign of what caused the commotion. The overhead light is on, just as I left it, and nothing seems out of place. No broken glass, no scattered items. For a moment, I’m convinced my brain tricked me, but then my gaze falls on the walk-in cooler. Its door is slightly open with a faint hum emanating from it, and when I step closer, a cool draft hits me.

I could have sworn it was closed when I left earlier. No rat is big enough to open the fridge which should relieve me…but it doesn’t.

Was someone in here? And for what?

I push the door wider, but nothing immediately seems out of place. Everything is in order, just as I keep it, which only confuses me further.

With a laugh, I start to shut the cooler when something grabs my attention. There is some kind of white powder on the floor. Sugar, maybe, or flour. Confused, I crouch to look closer, following the trail to a bottom shelf where a plain brown box sits. I reach in and pull it out, gasping when I spot little baggies of white powder stacked over each other.

I jump back with a cry, slapping a hand over my mouth as it dawns on me what I’m looking at.

Drugs. In my cooler. My kitchen.

Oh, Jesus and Mary.

I never thought I’d see anything like this ever again. This is one of the reasons I moved away from New Orleans. Growing up, I watched people in my neighborhood pass these small baggies at street corners on my way from school. I swore when I was old enough, I would leave and go far, far away from the drugs and the death and the violence. I didn’t just want to move to a safer part of the town. I wanted to leave it all behind. Completely.

And now, it’s found me.