Chapter 14: The Taste of Fire
There's a restaurant on the edge of Florence. Tucked between olive groves and an old stone wall that once marked the city's boundary, it doesn't have a name on the front. Just a wooden door, ivy-covered columns, and a flickering lantern that glows warm after sunset.
I built it for someone else.
And for once, not as a sanctuary or a symbol.
But as a promise.
---
The head chef, Alessandro Ferro, had been a client of mine nearly seven years ago. A culinary prodigy. Obsessed with taste, texture, perfection. But he had a problem — he suffered from chronic pain. Neurological, untreatable. Every day was a battle against his own nerves.
He asked for one thing: freedom from pain.
The Wheel gave him what he wanted.
And, like always, more than he expected.
Total loss of pain sensation.
He didn't feel the knives when he slipped.
Didn't notice when the oven burned his arm.
He learned quickly — pain was a warning. And without it, he danced on fire every day.
Still, he adapted. He wore reinforced gloves. Took breaks by the clock instead of waiting for exhaustion. He trained his staff to watch his hands like hawks.
And somehow, through it all, he became better. Not because of the favor. But in spite of it.
---
When I stepped inside the restaurant, the place smelled of rosemary, citrus, and firewood. Warm light flickered across hand-carved tables. No music. Just the hum of quiet conversation and the sizzle of a kitchen alive with intention.
A young host approached.
"Reservation?"
"No," I said. "But tell Alessandro Tony is here."
She blinked. "Tony…?"
"He'll know."
She vanished through the swinging door, and moments later, I heard a voice bellow, rich with laughter.
"You old bastard! I was starting to think you'd forgotten how to eat!"
He emerged wearing his black apron and signature crooked grin. His arms were scarred. His eyes sharp. He looked stronger than I remembered — and more tired.
We embraced. Brief. Real.
---
He didn't let me order.
"Tonight, you get what I want you to taste."
He served seven courses. Each more precise than the last. Scallops with saffron foam. Braised lamb that fell apart with a whisper. A risotto so perfect it nearly brought tears.
He sat with me between courses, drinking from a chipped espresso cup.
"I've burned my fingers three times today," he said with a shrug. "Didn't notice until I saw the skin."
"You should stop risking so much."
"That's the thing, my friend," he said, tapping his chest. "Cooking without pain? It's like playing piano without sound. I have to imagine the feedback. Measure every move. It's terrifying — and thrilling."
He paused. "Some days, I think the Wheel gave me exactly what I needed."
"Even if it nearly kills you?"
"Especially because of that."
---
After dessert — a citrus tart that lit my nerves like sunrise — we stepped outside into the cool night.
Olive trees rustled in the breeze. Crickets hummed in the grass.
"You ever think of retiring?" I asked.
"Every morning," he said. "Then I smell the garlic and oil, and the stove calls me back."
"Even if it kills you?"
He laughed. "Everything does eventually. Except you."
I didn't respond.
He clapped me on the back. "Thank you for the favor. And the curse. I'm not sure which one made me better."
"Maybe both."
He nodded. "Come back sooner next time. I'll make you something dangerous."
"I wouldn't expect anything less."
---
I walked away with my coat folded over my arm, full in stomach and thought.
Pain, I realized, isn't just suffering. It's part of being alive.
And Alessandro — reckless, brilliant, defiant — had turned his punishment into poetry.
One flame at a time.