Noah
I strode into the kitchen, the scents of basil and roasted tomatoes mingling with the faint aroma of freshly baked bread. Antonio, our chef, was hunched over the counter, carefully slicing thin strips of chicken. His movements were precise, almost mechanical, and I could hear the faint clink of metal as his knife hit the cutting board.
“Antonio,” I called, my voice sharp enough to make him straighten.
“Signor Noah,” he said, nodding respectfully. “The meal for Miss Irina is nearly ready. I’ve prepared a light broth, as per the doctor’s instructions.”
I moved closer, glancing at the tray he was preparing. A bowl of clear broth sat in the center, a few delicate pieces of chicken floating in the golden liquid, along with finely chopped vegetables. Next to it, there was a slice of sof
