Disclaimer: I do not own VA and thank Richelle Mead for writing such an awesome series.

So had hoped to update sooner but oh well.

I've actually more or less planned out this story – just need to write each chapter, edit etc.

I guess I'm eager to get through this series as soon as possible so I can focus on my original work…

At the moment, I'm not sure if I will write anything more after I complete this series…but creativity is a fickle mistress… sometimes she is all consuming, while other times she leaves you frustrated…

Anyway…enjoy!

Two rival restaurants and chefs – what happens when love joins the menu?

Restaurant Wars

CHAPTER 5

Dimitri POV

I wish I could go back to Russia…

This last week (being back home) has been bittersweet.

I didn't realise how much I had missed my mama, babushka, sisters, nephew and niece until I stood before them. After endless hugs, kisses and chatter, I just stood back and basked in their warmth and love. They were my life and I loved each one of them dearly (even my annoying sisters). I, unfortunately, had forgotten that I didn't share the same feelings for my father. Don't get me wrong – I had great respect for the man and learnt everything there was to know about running a restaurant and business from him (beyond the usual school experience and the cooking lessons I received from mama and babushka, that made me the chef I'm today).

Where I could spend endless hours next to my mama and babushka in the kitchen, I could only handle my father in small doses. The 5 years I had been in Russia had made me forget (or at least diminish) the tense and troublesome relationship I had with me father and even though we had weekly 'vodka' catch-ups, 80% of the time was spent with him judging and criticising me.

No matter what I did or achieved it was never good enough.

And so here I was, sitting in my father's study waiting for the man himself. While I waited, I poured us both some Russian vodka and pulled out the pickles and cold meats from the mini-fridge. I tried to get as comfortable as possible in one of the two leather arm chairs, while I reacquainted myself with the surroundings. As far as I could remember, this study had not changed one bit. Apart from the two large leather armchairs, every other piece of furniture was dark brown oak. The study has remained untouched since my great, great grandfather (or so I've been told). The only exception being the shiny new notebook/tablet – a recent purchase Sonya had insisted our father procure to 'keep with the times'.

Normally people would have family photos, knick knacks or paintings in their study to make it appear 'homely' but not my father. The only homage he had to the family were framed certificates that adorned the wall behind his desk and the few trophies that sat on the top shelf of his large bookcase. It didn't matter what we did, Belikovs were expected to be winners.

I felt my father's presence before I heard him enter, as he made his way to the empty armchair. Though he was shorter than me, the way he carried himself and spoke commanded fear and respect. He lived by one moto – always be the best. And it was this philosophy that dictated every aspect of his life and the lives of his family.

"So Dimitri, how have you fared this first week back at the restaurant?"

No 'hellos' or pleasantries – as always my father was all business.

"It has gone well, father. I have so many ideas that I wish to explore – things that I've learned in Russia. I'm looking at ways we can improve the menu and streamline the current processes to make things more efficient. It will definitely help us with the upcoming competition".

I puffed out my chest unconsciously, for once proud and convinced that I was doing things well and that surely my father could not find any fault. I wasn't naïve enough to think this would warrant some form of praise (though I frustratingly craved it) but I certainly wasn't expecting the hard look he gave me and the ensuing thick silence. Squirming in my seat, uncomfortable under his unflinching glare, I internally questioned what had I said that could have caused this reaction. Did I say something wrong? Done something foolish?

Finally, he shifted his position, but instead of engaging me in conversation, he leant forward and picked up his glass of vodka. It seemed he wanted me to stew in my nervousness, all the while making me guess what could have caused this reaction (or lack thereof).

Not handling any more of his silent treatment, I cleared me throat and asked him tentatively.

"Have I done or said something wrong, father?"

The dark brown eyes narrowed coldly, still holding me frozen in their judgemental stare. Finishing the last of his vodka, he placed the glass down before putting me out of my misery.

"Where do I begin? For starters your definition of 'gone well' is clearly very different to mine. The feedback I have received from Tasha and Mark have me concerned. There is a reason things have been going the way they have since the early days of the restaurant. One of this being the menu – it is the foundation upon which our restaurant runs and here you are coming in, thinking that 5 years in Russia suddenly gives you the authority to shake and reformat things. There is a reason you are a sous-chef and the fact you have deluded yourself into thinking you can make such changes without my consent is laughable. I AM STILL THE HEAD CHEF AND OWNER!"

The last bit may as well have been shouted with the way I recoiled in my seat and not delivered in his cold, calm voice. I was speechless. How did he expect me to be the best if we were so focused on staying the same? It shouldn't have surprised me, considering the unchanged environment we were currently sitting in. Along with the cold relationship, I had forgotten my father's aversion to change. My eyes quickly flicked to the new computer and I couldn't help but wonder how on earth Sonya had been able to convince him to buy the new piece of technology.

He didn't wait for me response, clearly not wanting to waste time hearing me grovel or apologise. Instead, he pulled a bunch of papers out of his back pocket and handed them to me.

"Here are the details of the competition. Read it, memorise it but most importantly remember that I will be running things. I may look to you for 'your thoughts' on matters, but in the end I make the final decision. This year we HAVE to win and beat the Mazurs once and for all. I want you to live and breathe the restaurant and this competition only. No distractions. You will be by my side throughout, starting with the stupid welcoming party so make sure your tux is ready".

Before I could do or say anything, my father had already left the room.

I sat there, dumfounded, staring at the papers in my hand. What just happened here?

As I clutched my head in my hands, my mind shifted through my memories. I may be Victor Belikovs only son, but that meant jack-all. If anything, I'm certain it doubled the expectations he had of me compared to my sisters (when it came to striving to be the best). After all I would be the one to carry on the family name and legacy. Of all his children, if I had to guess who my father's favourite was, it would be Sonya. Even now (regardless of being pregnant and having to move back home because her deadbeat boyfriend kicked her out) she could do no wrong. Maybe it was the fact that out of all of us, Sonya resembled him the most while the rest of us had our mama's features. That's the only explanation I had to his favouritism.

Groaning in frustration, I got up and cleared away the vodka and snacks. This was probably one of our more 'shorter' catch-ups but maybe it was a good thing.

Desperately wanting to have my ego and self-esteem boosted, I decided I wouldn't waste the night and instead check out the local nightlife with my cousin, Ivan.

I was waiting for his reply when I bumped into my mama.

Since last Saturday she has been acting really strange. She would either be staring at me or off in the distance, lost in some deep thought. She has always been a loving and nosy mama, but I've got a strange feeling something more was up – I wouldn't be surprised if she suddenly started setting me up on dates, bugging me about marriage and babies.

Regardless of my womanising ways, I wasn't adverse to the idea of marriage and kids – to find that special someone who understood and loved me for me.

Shaking off these sappy thoughts, I tried to avoid the interrogation I knew I was about to face with a quick kiss, but my mama was a smart woman.

"Mitya, are you going out tonight? I'm assuming it will be with Ivan, yes? Well he won't get to the house for another 20 mins so why don't you come and keep me company in the kitchen while I make dinner…"

And before I could even reply she was already off, expecting me to follow. That's the thing about mama, usually she leaves you be and waits for you to go to her. But then there are times when she gets into what we call 'mother hen' mode and forces a talk on you. Something told me I was about to have one of those moments.

"So Mitya, how is everything?"

Not wanting to get too comfortable, I opted to stand by the doorway that lead into the kitchen and watched my mother putter around. Still feeling deflated from the conversation I had with my father but not wanting to worry her, I kept my response short and sweet.

"Fine".

She paused her chopping and turned to me sternly. Like always, she was able to discern a lot more than what was being said. Her arched eyebrow indicative of her 'motherly intuitive' kicking in and letting me know she knew that all was 'NOT FINE'. Releasing a loud sigh, I decided to be more forthcoming.

"When will father be proud of me? Why am I never good enough? I have dedicated my entire life to our family's restaurant and legacy. From a young age it was drilled into me that one day I would take over the business and so had to become the best and I've been trying and doing everything I can possibly think to achieve this! I even went to Russia for 5 years! But none of it seems to matter. What can I do to prove to father I'm committed and ready to take over? How can I get him to give me a chance and let me do things my way to prove myself? Why is he so adverse to change?"

I hadn't meant to drop so much on her lap, but when I opened my mouth, all my fears came pouring out. Voicing my inner thoughts suddenly made me realise just how much my father's lack of support and understanding had affected me, and I hated that the man had so much power over me. Mama's entire demeanour changed and she discarded her chopping to come and take me into a big hug.

"Oh moy dorogoy syn, your father is proud of you, never doubt that. He just pushes you and your sisters because that's the kind of man he is and that's his way of showing love. Belikov men have always had this tendency to dole out tough love and your father is keeping up with tradition. As for his reluctance to change, again, this is a Belikov trait. They have always lived by the rule 'If something isn't broken don't fix it' – why do you think we still have furniture from the 20s? Your father is just set in his ways and has always found any kind of change hard to adjust to. So you coming back from Russia with new ideas and ways of doing things, well, it's too much too soon. I'm not saying you are wrong or that you should be discouraged – more that you should do things slowly. Find ways to bring in these new methods/thoughts that don't necessarily challenge the status quo".

I looked at my mama lovingly. Truly, she has been the only woman so far in my life that has come close to understanding me and loving me unconditionally. But sometimes I felt she was naïve – like right now.

"How mama? The man is so stuck in his ways and regimented I don't know how I can do anything".

"You will take lead in the competition".

Babushka's stern voice made us both jump in surprise. Neither one of us had noticed her presence in the kitchen till then. As always she spoke in Russian, to ensure her grandkids didn't forget 'where we came from'.

"Babushka?"

She gave me an exasperated look before continuing.

"Do I have to spell it out for you boy? You will take-point in the upcoming competition, meaning you will be in charge of making decisions on what will be cooked, how it's presented – everything. This way your father can finally see what you are capable of without you stepping on his ego in his kitchen".

I stood there speechless. She had to be joking. There was no way in hell he would allow this – this competition was just as important to him as the restaurant.

"I don't think he would allow that to happen babushka. The competition is too important to him and what with us finally having the chance to beat the Mazurs this year, there is too much at stake. He won't allow it".

She brushed off my comment like it was an annoying fly.

"Psst, your father will allow it, because I WILL allow it. He maybe the owner and head chef, but I'm still his mother, and he knows better than to challenge me on such things. So you stop worrying and questioning yourself. Your time to shine will be here soon, so why don't you relax tonight and have fun with Ivan".

I let go of my mama and eagerly made my way to wrap my babushka in a hug. My mind already reeling with endless possibilities, I felt like the Energiser bunny. Patting my cheek affectionately, she dismissed me with a wave of her hand. Planting a goodbye kiss, I practically skipped off to meet Ivan outside the house.

No matter what happens, I knew this year the competition was going to be epic and my life would never be the same again.

Google translate

Moy dorogoy syn = Dear son