TASTE OF FIRE

Chapter 5

The knives in Adrian’s kitchen gleamed like mirrors, honed so sharp they could cut silence itself. Chefs carried them like weapons, each one an extension of their hands. To mishandle a knife here was more than sloppy it was sacrilege.

Tonight, Luca learned just how merciless the blades could be.

He had been chopping parsley, his injured hand stiff from the burn it carried, when fatigue caught him. His grip slipped on the slick cutting board, and the knife sliced into his palm with a clean, cruel edge.

Pain shot through him so suddenly, so white-hot, that his knees nearly buckled.

He gasped, clutching his hand. Blood welled instantly, bright against his pale skin, staining his sleeve and dripping onto the counter.

The sound of his breath hitched. The clang of knives and the sizzle of pans seemed to mute for a heartbeat as the brigade noticed.

Julien was the first to sneer. “Pathetic. Can’t even hold a knife. You’ll bleed the whole station out.”

Snickers rose from the line, sharp and merciless. A prep cook muttered something about “farm boys and toys,” earning a cruel laugh.

Luca bit down hard, refusing to let tears sting his eyes. The cut burned, but the humiliation was worse. He pressed his palm against his apron, willing the bleeding to stop, willing his body not to shake.

He would not cry. Not here. Not in front of him.

“Move.”

Adrian’s voice cut through the storm. Quiet, but commanding enough to still every hand in the room.

The chefs froze. Julien stepped back, the sneer slipping from his face.

Adrian strode toward Luca, his expression carved from stone. Without hesitation, he took Luca’s wrist. His touch was firm and sure but startlingly warm.

Luca’s breath caught. He braced for scorn, for the razor-sharp words that would cut deeper than any blade.

But Adrian said nothing at first. He turned Luca’s hand, examining the wound with clinical focus. Blood smeared across his glove, but his grip never faltered.

“It’s deep,” Adrian said finally, his tone low. “But not crippling.”

Luca swallowed hard. “I can keep working. Please, Chef. Don’t send me out.”

The plea came out raw, unguarded. The thought of leavingeven for one nightfelt unbearable. He had fought too hard to get here.

Adrian’s gaze lifted, locking onto his. The kitchen around them blurred into nothing. For a single moment, it felt as though Adrian saw himnot the apprentice, not the liability, but him.

“You’ll scar if you’re careless,” Adrian murmured. His voice was quiet enough that no one else heard. “Scars in this kitchen are earned. Not given.”

The words sank into Luca’s chest like an oath.

Adrian guided him toward the prep sink. The rest of the brigade watched without watching, pretending to be absorbed in their tasks though their eyes flickered at every movement.

Adrian rinsed the wound himself, water hissing as it washed pink across the steel. His movements were efficient, precise, the same ruthless control he demanded of everything. But there was something else in the way his fingers steadied Luca’s trembling wrist.

A softness, buried deep.

“Hold still,” Adrian ordered. He reached for the first-aid kit, his brows furrowed in focus as he wound the bandage around Luca’s palm. The fabric tightened snugly, warm against Luca’s skin.

Julien’s voice cut across the moment, sharp and bitter. “Coddling him, Chef? The others will notice.”

Adrian’s head snapped up. His glare landed on Julien like a blade. “Do your job, Julien. Or I’ll find someone who can.”

The sous chef blanched, his mouth snapping shut.

The rest of the brigade ducked their heads, hands moving faster, as though the silence itself was dangerous.

When Adrian finished binding Luca’s hand, he stepped back. His expression had already shuttered, the mask of cool detachment sliding back into place.

“Back to work,” he said.

Luca nodded quickly. His hand still throbbed, but the pain was drowned out by something else, the echo of Adrian’s touch, the intensity of his eyes, the strange current running between them.

The hours dragged. Luca worked one-handed, his cuts slower, his plating clumsier. He braced for mockery, but none came. Julien stayed silent, seething in his corner. The rest of the brigade kept their eyes down.

Adrian never said another word to him that night, but Luca felt the weight of his gaze more than once, steady and sharp from across the kitchen.

By the end of the service, Luca’s body was screaming. His back ached, his head pounded, and the bandage on his hand was already stained through. Still, he forced himself to stay upright, to scrub down his station with as much care as if he were plating for a critic.

He had survived. Again.

The kitchen emptied slowly. Knives were sheathed, pans stacked, jackets shrugged off. One by one, the brigade slipped into the Paris night, leaving only the hum of the coolers and the faint hiss of extinguished burners.

Luca lingered, cleaning his knives with deliberate precision. Each stroke of the cloth steadied his hands, calmed the wild rush in his chest.

The door creaked. He glanced up, expecting a dishwasher.

It was Adrian.

He leaned against the frame, arms folded, his presence filling the quiet kitchen like a shadow. “Why are you still here?”

Luca froze, gripping the cloth tighter. “Just finishing up, Chef.”

Adrian stepped forward, his gaze flicking to the bandage. “You’ll drive yourself into the ground.”

“I can handle it,” Luca said quickly. His voice was too sharp, too defensive. He softened it. “I didn’t come here to quit after a cut and a burn.”

For a long moment, Adrian said nothing. He studied Luca as if weighing him, not just his skill, but the shape of his stubbornness, the heat of his pride

“You’re stubborn,” Adrian said at last.

Luca’s lips twisted in a half-smile. “My grandmother used to call it resilience.”

Something flickered in Adrian’s eyes at the word grandmother. A shadow, brief but sharp. But he masked it instantly.

“Resilience breaks, too,” he said flatly.

Luca hesitated, then forced the question that had been burning in him all night. “Do you want me to leave, Chef? If I’m a distraction, say it now, and I’ll go.”

The words rang raw in the stillness. His throat tightened. He hadn’t meant to sound so vulnerable, but the truth had slipped through.

Adrian’s jaw clenched. He stepped closer, so close Luca could smell the faint smoke and spice clinging to his jacket.

“Distractions don’t survive in my kitchen,” Adrian said softly.

It should have been dismissed. But the way his eyes lingered, dark intent, almost hungry made the words something else entirely.

Luca’s pulse raced. The silence between them stretched taut, thick with something unspoken, something dangerous.

Then Adrian turned abruptly, the mask snapping back into place. “Get some rest, Moretti. Tomorrow will be worse.”

His footsteps echoed against the tiles as he left, the door swinging shut behind him.

Luca stood frozen for a long moment, breath shallow, heart hammering against his ribs. His hand throbbed beneath the bandage, but it wasn’t the cut that kept him rooted to the spot.

It was the echo of Adrian’s touch, the rasp of his low voice, the way his eyes had softened just for a heartbeat before hardening again.

Outside, the Paris night was cool, and the rain finally eased. Luca stepped into the damp air, drawing his jacket tight around him.

He told himself it was nothing. A chef protecting his apprentice. A leader is watching his brigade.

But deep down, beneath the exhaustion, he knew better.

Something had shifted tonight.

And it was only a matter of time before fire met fire.