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The autumn breeze that goes up my nose as I ride Luna to work with my visor open, racing towards the rising sun, refreshes me and wakes me more than any cup of coffee or energy drink can. There’s just something magical about the open road, the breeze, the freedom, all of it.
I love my “day job” for the family at Valentino’s. The modern, fusion restaurant not only gives me the liberty to create delicious and new things, but it’s the best way to hone my knife skills. Fileting meats and seafoods, chopping vegetables, and slicing fruits all help me keep my hands trained with the already deeply ingrained muscle memory of how to handle a razor-sharp blade.
Normally the sous chef and prep cooks would do the labor of cutting the foods for their head chef, but they all know to leave me for it. It’s why I come in so freaking early every day, so I can take my time and enjoy the peace and quiet as I practice my trade.
I’m lost in thoughts of my favorite chef’s knife and the perfect balance it has in my tattooed hand as I weave in and out of the light traffic. I can see it and even sense it in my grasp, as if the throttle in my right fist were it. It’s a very comforting feeling, making me close my eyes for a second to just feel and enjoy my two loves.
The highways are almost empty, allowing me to open up the bike and get a nice zippy ride in, but when I take the exit and pull on the city streets, my commute is slowed, and I actually need to pay attention to the cagers all around me. I would hate a stupid accident to bring the attention of the cops to my existence. So far, I’ve remained a shadow, something that hides in the light, and only appears when the conditions are just right for me to show myself.
The occasional horn beeps, and a group of kids wave to me from the sidewalk, cranking their hands, begging me to rev the bike as I sit at a stop light, quietly tapping on the tank to the music in my helmet. It’s fun to do it for them, and to see their smiles light up at the loud roar, just the way mine did when I was at that age and dreaming of having my own motorcycle. The day Luna came into my life was the day I was a complete man.
I used the proceeds from my first kill to buy her. I remember her sitting in the showroom, her red and white paint gleaming under the bright lights, her shiny tires calling to me, her seat begging me to sit on her. I had walked over to her, and the world around me fell away, like how it does when you see the woman of your dreams. The other customers disappeared, and the voice of the salesman was just a hollow echo under the roaring in my ears of her speaking to me.
Her seat was so smooth under my bare fingers as I traced them over her, caressing her, whispering sweet nothings to her about how I was going to take her home with me. It really was love at first sight, and we’ve been together ever since. She’s been my dream, my therapy, my reprieve, and the way I scream out my angers and frustrations when nothing else will calm me. She’s my girl, my Luna, my love.
Shaking my head I clear the images from behind my eyelids and crank backwards on the throttle, making her bellow out her song for the group of kids, then I pick up my feet and take off through the green light, vanishing from their view and getting closer to the sun and to the new day.
Chapter Three
“Ahh there he is, the man himself!” Valentino Carlucci calls out as I walk into the massive kitchen and toss my riding gloves down on the butcher block counter. “Early as usual.”
“Yep. My knives come back from the smith?” I ask him as he leans his pinstripe suit covered, broad shouldered body against the wall near the doorway to the dining room.
His thick black hair is slicked back, and his appearance is nothing short of polished, as always. Even the flower in his lapel is crisp and fresh, with a drop of dew on its unfurled petals. If he were older he would look like the quintessential mafia godfather, but his youth just makes him look like a pompous rich playboy, which he obviously is. A good paying one though, and one who has had my back since the family took me in. I could definitely work for worse people.
“They’re sharper than sharp, just how you like them.” He says with a knowing smile as he rubs his arched eyebrow with the pad of his thumb. “Later we’ll discuss your next assignment, for now I’ll leave you to your thing.”
“Any hints?”
“Just wait. You’ll love the surprise.” He laughs as he pushes away from the wall and leaves me alone in my stainless steel and tile kitchen with all my newly sharpened blades.
The swinging saloon doors haven’t even stopped tapping against their frame before I’m stripping off my jacket and tossing it over the top knob on the coat rack in the corner. Rolling up my sleeves, I wash my hands at the large steel basin sink, grab a bar towel, and dry them off. Throwing the terry cloth over my shoulder where it will stay until it’s soiled and needs to be replaced, I click on the stereo on the counter and get to work.
My preferences for sleek, uncluttered, and clean are paramount in my professional kitchen. From the polished doors of the walk-in fridge and freezer to the oiled wooden chopping blocks, and all the shiny surfaces in between. The island in the middle of the room, with its own prep sink, is where I like to do my morning routine, and I’m humming along with the radio as I grab the veggies I want from their baskets and chuck them onto the counter.
“There you are my beauties.” I say, leaning forward over the food, looking lovingly at my knives as they hang tips down on the magnetic strip that runs the length of the raised ledge of the island. “Come to papa.”
My favorite one is the plain looking, perfectly balanced, full tang chef’s knife. With its straight edge that’s razor sharp, and a soft black grip, it cuts perfectly and feels good in my grip for hours on end. Too bad she’s too large to conceal easily or I would absolutely use her for my other job.
Hanging over the counter on the order line is a card with the day’s scheduled specials. I know what they are, I wrote the list yesterday before heading out to the club and as I trace my finger down the list of items needed, I spin the knife in my other hand then stab it in to the wooden prep surface, watching the handle vibrate back and forth.
“Peppers, onions, scallions, mushrooms, tomatoes, yada yada yada.” I say out loud as I begin slicing and dicing with a speed unmatched by most other professional chefs.
I love the sound of the blade tapping the cutting board, and the feel of the foods easily slicing apart in my hands. The way the tomatoes almost bleed when I make super thin filets makes me grin and pop one in my mouth with a satisfied sigh. It’s sweet and citrusy, and cool on my tongue.
As the songs coming from the stereo get harder and faster, I chop and slice more aggressively, making tiny pieces easy for sautéing and cooking rapidly. In a commercial kitchen speed is your ally, just like when you’re taking out a mark sometimes. Rapid death is occasionally the way to go, and I wonder if the next project that Valentino and his uncle have for me will be a quick and smooth process too.
Yeah but you like slow and painful too. Don’t lie to yourself.
Chuckling quietly to the voice in my head, I nod and continue on, making quick work of the task at hand.
“I do.” I say as I pause to balance the knife by its tip on my forefinger, then throw it up into the air, catch it, and go back to cutting with lightning speed.
I’m lost in my work when the other staff starts to file in. My sous chef, Antonio,comes in first and silently wraps his white apron around his black clad waist, smiling at me as he goes right to his chores of setting up the prep stations and firing up the ovens and flat tops.
“Morning.” I say to him as he brushes against my back, wiggling himself between me and the range behind me.
