Chapter 6 - The Feast of CorazónOne year later.
The grand opening of Corazón in the West Loop was the event of the season in Chicago.
The street outside was lined with luxury cars, black SUVs, and local news crews. The restaurant was stunning—a masterclass in industrial elegance, featuring exposed brick walls, soft leather booths, high timber ceilings, and a state-of-the-art open kitchen where five chefs worked under my direct supervision.
The air smelled heavenly—roasted garlic, fresh pasta, grilled meats, cilantro, and warm, hand-pressed tortillas. It was a fusion of my heritage and the rich culinary traditions I had learned over the past year.
The dining room was packed with a brilliant mix of Chicago society—politicians, artists, business moguls, and discreetly dressed men with heavy rings and watchful eyes who stood near the exits, ensuring absolute peace.
I stood in the pass of the kitchen, wearing a pristine white chef’s coat with my name, Elena Gomez-Rossi, embroidered in silver thread across the breast.
Yes. Rossi.
Two months ago, in a private ceremony in the estate’s rose garden surrounded by Sofia, Maria, Lev, and a small circle of trusted friends, Mateo and I had been married. There were no press, no grand displays for the public—just two people who had found their home in each other, promising to walk through the fire together.
I picked up a large, silver tray containing a signature bowl of slow-cooked birria broth and handmade tortillas.
My hands were entirely steady. Not a single tremor touched my fingers.
I walked out of the kitchen, stepping into the warm, bustling dining room. The sunlight of late afternoon was streaming through the floor-to-ceiling front windows, bathing the restaurant in a golden, peaceful light.
I walked straight past the busy booths, straight past the cheering guests, and approached Table 17.
It was a quiet booth nestled in the corner, offering a perfect view of every door, every window, and every face in the room.
Mateo sat in the middle.
He was wearing a dark navy suit, looking as formidable and handsome as the day I first met him. But there was no coldness in his grey eyes now—only a deep, radiant warmth as he watched me approach.
Beside him sat Lev and Rico, who were busy arguing over who got the last piece of appetizer bread.
I set the dish down in front of Mateo with practiced, elegant grace.
Mateo didn't look at the food. He reached out, his long fingers wrapping gently around my wrist. He didn't check my pulse to see if I was trembling. He simply pulled my hand to his lips and pressed a warm, lingering kiss against my skin.
“Everything is perfect, my love,” Mateo said softly, looking up at me.
“It is,” I agreed, leaning down to press a soft kiss against his cheek.
Rico grinned, raising his glass of wine. “To the Queen of Chicago! Best food in the Midwest!”
“To Elena,” Lev added with a rare, genuine smile.
Mateo held my hand, his thumb stroking my wedding ring—a brilliant, emerald-cut diamond flanked by platinum bands that caught the golden afternoon light.
“Do you remember what you asked me the first day we met?” Mateo murmured, his voice low enough that only I could hear.
“I asked why you were helping me,” I replied, smiling.
“And I told you that you were going to stop shaking,” Mateo said softly, his dark grey eyes shining with boundless love and devotion. “You survived the storm, Elena. Now, you rule it.”
I looked around my restaurant—at the laughter, the warmth, the safety, and the incredible man holding my hand. The monsters had come for me, but I had found the one man who loved me enough to keep them at bay forever.
May you like
I squeezed Mateo’s hand tightly, feeling the solid, unshakable beat of his heart against my palm.
“I’m not shaking anymore, Mateo,” I whispered, leaning into his side. “I’m home.”
