1
SAVANNAH
Ibalance three plates on my arm and tell myself I am not going to cry in the walk-in fridge. Not tonight.What’s the point, anyway?Life won’t get easier because a few drop of tears ran down my cheeks.
I take a glance around.
The kitchen is a disaster. Tickets pile up on the rail, pans hiss nonstop, the heat is suffocating, and Gerard is already in one of his moods. He circles behind us like he owns the air we breathe, picking at every detail and blaming whoever’s closest. I try to keep my head down and focus, but my mind keeps drifting toward the email I’ve been waiting for all day.
If the insurance finally approves Mom’s surgery, everything changes. If they don’t… I don’t know how we’ll handle it. Her medication alone eats most of my paycheck. The hospital visits take the rest. I tell myself not to think about it until the shift is over, but that’s impossible tonight.
“SAVANNAH!” Gerard’s voice slices through the noise. “Table three is complaining. You mess up the gnocchi?”
I keep stirring the pan in front of me because if I stop moving, I might scream. “No, chef. It went out perfect.”
He slams the plate on the pass hard enough to rattle the metal. “Some lady out there thinks it’s chewy. So either you screwed it up or the food magically changed texture in the dining room.”
“It’s gnocchi,” I say. “It’s supposed to be soft with a little bite.”
“Then explain that to her,” he snaps, leaning close enough that the sharp smell of alcohol hits me. “Without sounding like a smartass,” he emphasizes .
His gaze drops, slow and obvious, and I feel my whole body stiffen.
“Deep breaths, Savvy,” I tell myself.You need this job. Quitting is not an option for you, Savvy.
“I’ll talk to her,” I say tightly, my skin prickling in awareness of him.
He taps my chin with two fingers. “Good girl. And smile.”
I pull away before he can touch me again, grab the plate, and walk out into the dining room.
The shift in atmosphere is instant. It’s calmer here. Softer lighting. Clinking glasses. Expensive perfume. Every so often, I let myself imagine working at a place where the kitchen and dining room feel like parts of the same world instead of two completely different planets. A place that could someday be mine if life ever stops kicking me in the teeth.
I approach table three with the practiced smile I’ve perfected over the last few years. The woman in the pink pantsuit barely looks at me. She’s busy talking to the man across from her, and when she finally glances up, she gives me the same expression people give subway performers who aren’t particularly good.
“Hi,” I smile harder. “I’m Savannah, the sous chef. I heard there was an issue with the gnocchi?”
“It’s rubbery,” she says, poking it again. “That’s not what pasta is supposed to taste like.”
“Gnocchi is fresh, potato-based pasta,” I explain. “It has a soft bite, not mushy. That’s intentional. But if you’d prefer a different texture, I can remake it or offer another dish.”
She crosses her arms. “You’re telling me I’m wrong?”
Jesus Christ.It’s like walking a tightrope. Our customer base is so touchy, so used to getting whatever they want whenever they want it, that you can’t even imply they might be wrong. The customer is always right—even when their palate is spectacularly uncultured.
“No, ma’am,” I say, keeping my tone even. “I’m just offering options. I can remake it however you’d like.”
She looks me up and down, like I’m a stain on the tablecloth. “Fine. Make it softer.”
“Of course.” I pick up the plate and turn away, heat crawling up my neck. I did nothing wrong, but I still feel like I’m walking away in defeat.
And then I feel it.
A stare. The heavy kind.
I glance to the center table near the wine display, and there he is.
Riccardo Romano.
