Jax's body went rigid. His old life had taught him how to read a room, how to spot a threat in a fraction of a second. This man, Kazimir, wasn't a cop. He wasn't a gangster. He was something else entirely, something that set every nerve in Jax's body screaming in a register he didn't recognize. The man's confidence was an invasive force, colonizing the very air in the room.
"We're closed," Jax said, his voice a low growl. He pushed himself out of the chair, his stance shifting into something more grounded, more ready. It was a posture that had served him well in dark alleys and warehouse shakedowns.
Kazimir's predatory smile didn't falter. He completely ignored Jax's statement, his amber eyes scanning the bar. "A place like this should have a decent bourbon," he mused, walking behind the bar as if he owned it. He picked up a bottle, examined the label with a look of theatrical disappointment, and poured a generous amount into a clean glass anyway. "For a man who spent years cracking skulls for the Moretti family, you have a surprisingly timid palate."
The name hit Jax like a punch to the gut. No one on this side of his life knew that name. He had buried it, burned it, and salted the earth over its grave. "Who the hell are you?" Jax demanded, taking a step forward.
Kazimir took a slow, deliberate sip of the bourbon, his eyes closing in mock appreciation. "I told you. I'm a consultant." He placed the glass down with a soft click. "I specialize in acquisitions and… talent management. I see potential being squandered, and I intervene. You, Jax, are the poster child for squandered potential. Trading a Glock for a whisk. It's a bold choice. And, as it turns out, a monumentally stupid one."
Every word was a perfectly aimed dart, designed to infuriate and destabilize. It was working. "Get to the point," Jax snarled. "What do you want?"
"I want what you want," Kazimir said, leaning against the back bar, the picture of calm. "I want this place to be a success. But your cooking," he sighed, gesturing vaguely toward the kitchen, "is a love letter written in crayon. The sentiment is there, but the execution is pathetic." He pushed himself off the bar. "Prove me wrong. Cook for me. The Cacio e Pepe you're so famous for."
A hot surge of defiance shot through Jax. It was pride, the last currency of a failing man. He didn't know who this smug bastard was, but he knew how to cook. It was the one clean thing he had. "Fine," he bit out.
He turned on his heel and strode into the kitchen, the anger giving his movements a sharp, efficient edge. He filled a pot with water, salted it aggressively, and set it on the stove to boil. He felt Kazimir's presence in the doorway, watching him, judging him. Jax ignored it. He toasted black peppercorns in a dry pan until they were fragrant, then crushed them with the flat of his knife. He grated a small mountain of Pecorino Romano.
The motions were rote, muscle memory honed over hundreds of attempts. He cooked the pasta, drained it, saving the starchy water. He combined it all in the pan, emulsifying the cheese and water into a sauce. Within minutes, a plate of Cacio e Pepe sat on the pass, steaming gently. It looked perfect.
Jax placed it on the counter in front of Kazimir without a word.
Kazimir picked up a fork, his movements elegant. He twirled a small, perfect bite, lifted it to his lips, and chewed once. His expression didn't change. He placed the fork down and slid the plate back toward Jax, an inch of movement that felt like a continental shift.
"As I said," Kazimir stated, his voice devoid of all mockery now, replaced by a simple, cold finality. "To die for. As in, I would rather die than eat a second bite of this culinary tragedy."
Jax's control finally snapped. "Get the hell out of my restaurant."
"Not yet," Kazimir said, his smile returning, this time holding a glint of something otherworldly. "We're not done with the tasting menu." He raised his right hand, palm up. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, resting in the center of his palm as if it had always been there, was a single, obsidian-black peppercorn. It seemed to drink the light from the room, impossibly dark, with a strange, unnatural weight to it. It felt cold from three feet away.
"Try again," Kazimir said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. He flicked the peppercorn onto the counter, where it landed with a heavy, dense click. "Use this. And when you add the pasta water to the pan, whisper 'Let them crave.'"
Jax stared at him, then at the peppercorn. This was insane. Some kind of elaborate prank. A mob-related mind game. But the alternative—that he was simply a failure—was worse. And there was something in Kazimir's eyes, a burning intensity that felt older than the city itself, that compelled him. Gritting his teeth, he took the peppercorn. It was cold, unnervingly so, and felt heavy as a lead bullet in his palm.
He repeated the process, but this time was different. The moment the black peppercorn hit the hot, dry pan, it didn't just toast. It hissed like water on a forge, and a plume of smoke, shimmering and opalescent, rose into the air. The aroma that filled the kitchen wasn't just pepper. It was smoke and ancient earth, charred oak and a hint of something wild, something that tugged at the most primal part of Jax's brain. It was the scent of hunger itself.
His hands moved on their own, his chef's instincts taking over. When the time came, he leaned over the pan, the heat washing over his face, and almost inaudibly, he whispered the words.
"Let them crave."
The starchy water hit the pan and the effect was instantaneous and violent. The sauce didn't just emulsify; it erupted into existence, a vortex of creamy, pale gold that clung to every strand of pasta with a supernatural speed. It coated the pasta in a sheen that seemed to glow with its own inner light. The aroma intensified, becoming so intoxicatingly rich that Jax felt his own stomach clench with a desperate, painful hunger.
His hands were trembling as he plated the dish. It looked the same, but it felt… alive. He didn't offer it to Kazimir. He needed to know. He picked up a fork, twirled a small amount, and lifted it to his mouth.
The world dissolved.
It wasn't a taste. It was a memory. It was the first real meal his mother made for him after they'd come to America, a desperate, loving attempt to create a home in a foreign land. It was the feeling of a closed fist, the surge of adrenaline before a fight he knew he would win. It was the quiet, burning ambition he felt when he first saw this storefront, the dream of what it could be. It was confidence and power and a deep, soul-satisfying pleasure all at once, a complex symphony of flavor and feeling that lit up every neuron in his brain. It was, without question, the single greatest thing he had ever put in his mouth.
He stumbled back a step, the fork clattering from his numb fingers. He stared at Kazimir, his breath catching in his lungs, his mind reeling.
Kazimir's smile was triumphant. "That," he said, his voice a silken purr, "is a taste of what I can give you. The Devil's Pantry is full of such ingredients. I will teach you techniques that mortal chefs can only dream of. Soul-Seasoning. Craving Infusion. This restaurant won't just be successful. It will be a legend. A Michelin star within a year. A two-month waitlist for a reservation. All of it."
Jax finally found his voice, a dry, raspy thing. "For what? What's the price?"
Kazimir leaned forward, his amber eyes seeming to glow with a faint, crimson light from within. The charming facade melted away, revealing the ancient, terrifying predator beneath.
"A simple monthly retainer," he said. "One soul. Once a month."