The ghost of garlic and old dreams haunted the air in Romano's. It was 8:30 PM on a Friday in Hell's Kitchen, an hour when every other restaurant on the block was a symphony of clattering plates, roaring laughter, and the frantic ballet of service. Romano's was a tomb. The only sound was the low, mournful hum of a refrigerator fighting a losing battle against the city's late-spring humidity and the distant, lonely wail of a siren slicing through the night.
Jax Romano leaned against the stainless-steel pass, his chef's whites a mockery. They were too clean, too crisp, completely unstained by the chaos of a busy service because there was no chaos. There was just the crushing, silent weight of failure. His knuckles, scarred and flattened from a different life, were stark white as he gripped the cool metal. He'd learned to break bones with those hands, to collect debts and enforce whispers of fear. He'd thought they could learn to create something, too. He'd been wrong.
His gaze was fixed on Table Four, the only occupied space in the twenty-table dining room. A young couple, tourists maybe, were picking at the last of their Cacio e Pepe. They were speaking in low murmurs, the man occasionally glancing around the empty room with an expression that was half-pity, half-unease. It was the look of someone who'd realized they'd walked into a wake by mistake.
Finally, the man flagged down Sofia, Jax's one and only waitress, and asked for the check. Jax's stomach tightened into a familiar, acid-laced knot. He watched Sofia's practiced smile as she processed the payment. He saw the couple stand, the man shrugging on his jacket. As they walked towards the door, the man caught Jax's eye and gave a small, hesitant nod.
"Everything alright with the meal?" Jax asked, the words feeling like sandpaper in his throat. He already knew the answer.
The man's smile was polite, brittle, and utterly devastating. "It was… fine," he said, the tiny pause before the word hanging in the air like a death sentence. The woman offered a tight-lipped smile that didn't reach her eyes and hurried out the door.
Fine. The most damning word in the English language for a chef. Not bad enough to complain about, but not good enough to remember, to recommend, to ever come back for.
They left a five-dollar tip on a sixty-dollar bill.
Jax waited until the sound of their footsteps faded before he moved. He walked over to the table, his movements stiff. The plates were half-finished. He picked up a fork, twirled it in the leftover pasta, and brought it to his mouth.
He chewed slowly, his eyes closed, forcing himself to analyze it. It was technically correct. The pasta was al dente. The Pecorino Romano was authentic, sharp, and salty. The black pepper was freshly toasted and cracked. But it was just… matter. A collection of ingredients occupying space on a plate. There was no soul, no spark. It was the culinary equivalent of a dial tone. It was food cooked by a man who was going through the motions, a man whose passion had been ground down to dust by empty chairs and overdue bills.
A low growl rumbled in his chest. A flicker of the old Jax, the one who worked for the Moretti family, flared to life in his eyes. That Jax wouldn't have stood for this mediocrity. That Jax would have burned the whole world down before accepting this kind of insult.
With a sudden, violent motion, he scraped the plates into the bus tub, the clatter of ceramic and silverware echoing like gunshots in the silent restaurant. He snatched the tub and stormed back toward the kitchen, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle pulsed in his cheek. He dumped the contents into the trash with a wet, final slap.
"Jax?" Sofia's voice was soft behind him. She stood by the kitchen door, twisting a corner of her apron in her hands. She was a good kid, a college student working for tuition, and she was loyal. Far more loyal than he deserved.
"It's nothing," he bit out, not turning around.
"It's just a slow night," she offered, the same hollow platitude she'd been offering for weeks. "Tomorrow will be better."
"No, it won't," Jax said, his voice flat and stripped of all hope. He finally turned to face her, his expression grim. "It's not a slow night, Sofia. It's a dead one. We're dead." He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his worn leather wallet, and extracted two fifty-dollar bills—more than she would have made in tips all week. "Go home. I'll close up."
Her face fell. "I can stay. I can help—"
"There's nothing to help with," he said, pressing the money into her hand. His tone was firm, leaving no room for argument. It was the voice he used to use when a conversation was over. "Go on. I'll see you tomorrow."
She hesitated, her eyes full of a sympathy he couldn't stand to look at, before nodding and retreating to grab her things. A moment later, the front bell jingled softly as she left, plunging the restaurant back into absolute silence.
Alone again. Jax walked out of the kitchen and sank into the chair at Table Four, the scene of his latest failure. On the table next to him sat a thick stack of mail. He pulled it closer. Bill after bill, each envelope stamped with a blood-red "OVERDUE" or "FINAL NOTICE." ConEd. The water company. His linen supplier. His butcher.
Underneath them all was the one that mattered most. A thick, cream-colored envelope from the bank. The word "FORECLOSURE" was visible through the window. He'd poured every dirty dollar he'd ever saved, every cent he'd bled for and threatened for, into this place. It was his penance. His one attempt to build something instead of breaking it. And it was all turning to ash. He had maybe two weeks before they locked the doors for good.
He dropped his head into his hands, the rough texture of his palms scraping against his stubble. The anger was gone now, replaced by a cold, heavy wave of despair that threatened to drown him. He was done. Beaten.
Jingle.
The sound of the bell on the front door was so unexpected it made him jolt upright, his heart hammering against his ribs. His old instincts screamed—a rival collector? An old ghost from the Moretti crew?
A man stood just inside the doorway, silhouetted against the streetlights. He was tall, impeccably dressed in a charcoal-grey suit that seemed to be tailored by a shadow. He moved with a liquid, unnatural grace as he stepped into the dim light, his polished shoes making no sound on the wooden floor. His face was sharp and handsome, framed by dark hair, but it was his smile that held Jax captive. It was wide, charming, and utterly predatory. It was the smile of a shark that knew it was the biggest thing in the ocean.
The man's eyes, a shade of dark, knowing amber, swept over the empty tables, the sad, wilting flower on the host stand, and finally landed on Jax.
"Jax Romano?" the man asked, his voice a low, smooth baritone that slid through the silence like aged whiskey. He didn't wait for an answer. He took another step forward, his smile widening just enough to reveal a hint of teeth.
"My name is Kazimir. I hear your Cacio e Pepe is to die for." His gaze flickered to the dirty plates still sitting in the bus tub. "Pity no one else does."