TASTE OF FIRE

Chapter 2

The next morning, Paris was painted in the rain. Thin silver sheets streaked the glass walls of Étoile de Feu, softening its sharp, modern lines. Inside, however, there was no softness. The kitchen buzzed long before service, alive with knives, clattering pans, and the clipped rhythm of commands.

Luca Moretti stood just outside the swinging door, damp curls plastered against his forehead, clutching his knife roll like a shield. His heart thudded a steady beat against his ribs.

This was it.

His grandmother’s voice echoed in his head, warm and lilting “Remember, Luca. Cooking is not about perfection. It is about love. Let them taste your heart.”

But love was the last thing Adrian Veyron’s kitchen wanted. Luca knew that already. He had seen the way Adrian looked at him last night, cold, assessing, dismissive. Still, Luca had come this far. He wasn’t going to shatter now.

He pushed through the door.

The sound hit him first shouts, sizzling pans, the roar of the ovens. The heat came next, thick and heavy, wrapping around him like a warning. The kitchen was vast, gleaming with stainless steel and copper, alive with motion. It felt less like a workplace and more like a battlefield.

And there, at the center, was Adrian Veyron.

He moved with predatory grace, issuing orders without raising his voice. Every chef obeyed without hesitation. His presence was so commanding that it made Luca feel both invisible and exposed at once.

The sous chef, a sharp-eyed man named Julien, noticed him first. “Ah, the new apprentice,” he said dryly. “Try not to faint. Chef doesn’t tolerate weakness.”

A ripple of laughter from the line. Luca swallowed hard, forcing his voice steady. “I won’t.”

Adrian turned then, his dark eyes landing on him with unnerving precision. “Moretti.”

Luca straightened. “Yes, Chef.”

Adrian’s gaze flicked briefly to the knife roll in his hands, then to the damp stain spreading across Luca’s jacket from the rain. “Unprepared,” he said flatly. “Unacceptable.”

Heat rose to Luca’s cheeks. “It won’t happen again, Chef.”

Adrian said nothing for a long moment, then gestured with a flick of his hand. “Garde manger. You’ll handle the salads and cold plates. If you can’t manage that, you don’t belong here.”

“Yes, Chef.”

The station was already alive with motion. Luca set his knives down, exhaled slowly, and began.

The first hour was chaos. Orders barked down the line like gunfire. Julien prowled near, correcting, criticizing, mocking when Luca’s cuts were uneven or his plating clumsy. Twice, Luca nearly dropped his knife. Once, he nearly fainted from the sheer pressure of keeping up.

But he pressed on.

He chopped with quicker hands, plated with sharper eyes. He borrowed tricks from his grandmother’s kitchen, rolling herbs to cut them finer, layering vegetables for balance. When Julien sneered at his garnish, Adrian’s voice cut across the line, low and precise.

“Leave it. It holds.”

Luca’s chest tightened. Not exactly praise, but something close. Enough to keep his hands from shaking.

Hours bled together. The kitchen roared with fire, sweat, and tension. By the time the final plates left the pass, Luca’s body ached, his fingers throbbed with tiny cuts, and his jacket clung damp to his back.

But he was still standing.

Adrian approached, the storm of service fading around him. For a moment, Luca braced for dismissal, for that cold voice to say he was too soft, too slow, too weak.

Instead, Adrian’s gaze lingered. His eyes were unreadable, dark and sharp, but his voice was quieter when he spoke.

“You survived the first night.”

Luca met his gaze, breath catching. “I will do more than survive, Chef.”

Something flickered across Adrian’s face, something dangerous, something Luca couldn’t name.

But just as quickly, it was gone. Adrian turned away, barking new orders to the brigade, already moving on.

Lued slowly. His hands were still trembling, but not from fear this time.

From something else.

That night, long after the other apprentices had staggered out, Luca lingered. He wiped down his station, carefully rolled his knives, and allowed himself a small, shaky smile. He had not been broken. Not yet.

But as he stepped out into the rain-slick Paris streets, he couldn’t shake the memory of Adrian’s eyes on him cold, yes, but also curious.

And curiosity, Luca knew, was dangerous.