Amy's POV
I arrived for my shift the next morning with dread coiling in my stomach.
The delivery driver had tasted my risotto. Had he told anyone? Was I already exposed?
I pushed through the employee entrance at 3:45 a.m., and the moment I saw Bianca's face, I knew.
She stood in the center of the kitchen, arms crossed, fury radiating off her in waves.
"You," she said, her voice deadly quiet. "My office. Now."
I followed her on shaking legs. She slammed the door behind us and pulled up footage on her computer.
Me. Cooking the risotto at 2 a.m.
"Marco the delivery driver came to me this morning raving about a risotto he found," Bianca said, her voice tight with rage. "A risotto that appeared out of nowhere, made from scraps, that tasted like something from a Michelin-starred kitchen. Imagine my surprise when I checked the cameras."
"Chef Moretti, I can explain…"
"You used my kitchen. My ingredients. You cooked without permission." She leaned forward. "Who taught you?"
"I'm self-taught. I just wanted to practice…"
"Self-taught?" She laughed bitterly. "That risotto was professional-level. You don't get that good from practice. So either you're lying about your training, or…" She stopped, studying me with narrowed eyes. "Or there's something else going on."
Before I could respond, someone knocked frantically on the door.
"Chef! Emergency!"
Bianca yanked the door open. "What?"
"The bisque for breakfast service we need you in the kitchen. Now."
We rushed out to find chaos.
I had been so distracted by Bianca's interrogation that I hadn't been watching where I was going. As we entered the kitchen, I stumbled, my hip slamming into a prep cart.
The cart jolted forward.
Into the table where the morning's bisque sat in a massive pot.
Everything happened in slow motion.
The pot teetered. Tipped. Exploded across the floor in a wave of lobster bisque and broken ceramics.
"NO!" Bianca screamed.
I stood frozen, staring at the disaster I had just caused. Gallons of bisque spreading across the pristine kitchen floor. The entire breakfast service, ruined.
"You…" Bianca's face went from red to white. "You just destroyed six hours of work. We have breakfast service starting in twenty minutes. The morning rush. And a VIP critic from La Cucina Moderna who specifically ordered the lobster bisque!"
"Chef, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean…"
"Sorry? SORRY?" She grabbed my arm. "You're finished. Done. I'm dragging you to Lorenzo's office myself and you're getting fired, you clumsy, incompetent…"
"Chef!" Another cook interrupted. "What do we do about service? We can't remake the bisque in time…"
"I can make it," I blurted out.
Everyone stopped.
Bianca turned slowly to face me. "What did you say?"
"I can make the bisque. In seven minutes."
"The bisque takes two hours…"
"I can do it in seven minutes. I swear. Just let me try."
Bianca stared at me for a long moment. Then her smile turned vicious.
"Fine. You have seven minutes. But when you fail and you will fail I'm not just firing you. I'm making sure you never work in a kitchen in Rome again." She shoved me toward the stove. "Clock starts now."
My hands were already moving.
Butter in the pan, high heat. Lobster shells crushing them hard, releasing every drop of flavor. Tomato paste, letting it caramelize. Cognac, the pan erupting in flames.
I didn't have time for stock, so I cheated.
Fish sauce. Just a drop. White miso paste dissolved in hot water. Smoked paprika that shouldn't work but would.
Heavy cream, but it was too hot, starting to split, I yanked it off the heat, added cold stock, whisked frantically. Then I saved it.
My nose was my only guide now. Saffron. White pepper. Fresh nutmeg.
Blend. Strain. Taste.
Not enough.
Truffle oil. Lemon zest. One torn basil leaf.
"Time!" Bianca barked.
I plated it with shaking hands, stepped back.
The entire kitchen had gone silent, watching.
Bianca took the bowl, lifted a spoon to her mouth. Tasted.
Her expression didn't change.
She tasted again. Then a third time.
"Get this to table seven," she said quietly. "Now."
A server grabbed it and ran.
Bianca turned to me, and I couldn't read her face. "How did you…"
The server burst back through the doors, breathless.
"The critic," he gasped. "She wants to meet whoever made that bisque. She says…" He paused for breath. "She says it's the best thing she's eaten in Italy in five years. She's demanding to know who the chef is."
The kitchen erupted in shocked murmurs.
Bianca's face went from pale to furious in an instant. "That's impossible. No one makes bisque like that in seven minutes…"
"Bianca."
Everyone froze.
Lorenzo De Luca stood in the doorway, and I'd never seen him during service hours. He was in a full suit, perfectly composed, but his eyes his eyes were locked on me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
"Mr. De Luca, I was just about to bring this girl to your office for termination. She destroyed an entire vat of bisque…"
"And then recreated it in seven minutes to the satisfaction of Italy's most respected food critic," Lorenzo finished. His gaze never left me. "I watched the footage. All of it."
My stomach dropped.
"The risotto last night. The bisque just now. You're either a culinary prodigy…" His eyes flashed gold for just a second, "or something else entirely."
"Sir, I can explain…"
"You'll explain in my office. Now." He looked at Bianca. "Send the critic up in ten minutes. Amy will do the interview."
"But I'm the head chef…"
"And she's the one who made the dish the critic wants to discuss." His voice was steel. "Ten minutes, Bianca."
He turned and walked out.
Bianca grabbed my arm, her nails digging in. "I don't know what you are or what game you're playing, but when this is over, you're done."
She shoved me toward the stairs.
I climbed them on numb legs, knowing that everything was about to change.
Because Lorenzo had seen the footage.
He knew what I could do.
And from the gold flash in his eyes, I was certain he knew exactly what I was.