The clock on the wall read 8:17 PM. Friday night. The dining room at Romano's was a graveyard of ambition. White and red checkered tablecloths covered ten empty tables. A single flickering candle on each one cast long, dancing shadows that made the room feel even larger, even emptier.
Only table four was occupied. A couple on a date that had clearly gone wrong sat in stony silence, pushing their food around their plates.
From the pass-through window of his kitchen, Jax Romano watched. His eyes weren't on the unhappy couple. They were on his waitress, Elara Vance. She moved between the tables with a quiet efficiency that defied the morgue-like atmosphere. She refilled the couple's water glasses, her smile warm but professional. It was a mask, he knew. He could see the tension in the set of her shoulders, the slight frown she couldn't quite hide when she turned away. She was worried. She was worried for him.
The thought was a lead weight in his gut. He had hired her a month ago. She was a student at the city's top culinary institute, working to pay her tuition. She'd told him in her interview that she took the job because she could feel the "soul" of the place. She'd said he had a passion she respected. Every time he remembered that, the weight in his gut got heavier. He was letting her down. He was letting them all down.
"Boss."
Jax turned. Sal, his one and only line cook, gestured with his chin at a new ticket hanging from the metal clip. "Another order just came in."
Jax grunted and tore the ticket from the holder. He squinted at the neat handwriting. Elara's. One Spaghetti Carbonara. One side salad. The couple at table four were gluttons for punishment.
"I'll take it," Jax said, his voice a low rumble.
Sal just sighed and went back to wiping down his already spotless prep station. The old man had worked in kitchens for forty years. He knew a sinking ship when he saw one. He was just staying on out of some misplaced loyalty to Jax's old man, who had been a friend.
Jax turned to the stove. He moved with a heavy, coiled energy that was better suited for a boxing ring than a kitchen. He slammed an iron skillet onto the burner and cranked the gas to high. The flames licked up the sides of the pan, roaring. He grabbed a handful of guanciale he'd prepped earlier and threw it into the pan. It sizzled violently, popping and spitting hot grease.
He knew the steps. He'd memorized the recipes. He'd watched a hundred videos. Guanciale until crisp. Whisk eggs and pecorino. Boil pasta. Combine. Simple. It was supposed to be simple.
But his hands didn't understand simple. They understood force. He gripped the pan handle like an enemy's throat, shaking it too hard. He saw the edges of the pork browning too quickly, a dark, acrid smoke beginning to rise.
"Easy on the heat, boss," Sal said without looking up. "You're treating that pan like it owes you money."
Jax ignored him. He dumped the pasta into the boiling water with a splash that sent scalding droplets across the floor. He turned back to the guanciale, saw that it was now blackening at the edges. Cursing under his breath, he killed the heat and used a slotted spoon to fish the pork out, leaving the rendered fat behind. Too much fat. He knew it was too much.
He worked faster, anger and desperation making his movements sloppy. He drained the pasta, saving some of the starchy water. He poured the hot pasta into the skillet with the fat, then added the egg and cheese mixture. He stirred.
It was wrong. Instantly, horribly wrong. Instead of a creamy, emulsified sauce clinging to each strand of spaghetti, he had a greasy mess of scrambled eggs and melted cheese. The sauce had broken. It was a culinary catastrophe. A five-minute dish that he had somehow managed to butcher.
He stared at the clumpy, oily disaster in the pan. The smell of burnt pork and overcooked egg filled the air. It was the smell of failure. With a growl of frustration, he plated the dish anyway, garnishing it with the burnt pieces of guanciale. He slid the plate onto the pass.
"Order up," he muttered, his jaw tight.
Elara appeared a moment later. She glanced at the plate, and for a fraction of a second, her professional mask slipped. He saw the flicker of disappointment in her eyes before she smoothed it over. "Thank you, Chef," she said, her voice even. She picked up the plate and carried it into the dining room.
Jax watched her set it down in front of the man at table four. He watched the man pick up his fork, twirl a small amount of pasta, and lift it to his lips. He saw the man's expression curdle from polite interest to disgust.
It was less than a minute before Elara was walking back to the kitchen, the nearly full plate in her hand. She placed it gently on the stainless-steel counter.
"Table four sent it back, Jax," she said. Her tone wasn't accusatory. It was soft, tinged with pity, which was somehow worse.
"What's their problem?" he snapped, though he already knew.
Elara hesitated. "He said… he said it tastes angry."
The words hit him harder than a fist. Angry. That's what he was. He was angry at the world, at his past, at his own useless hands. And somehow, that anger had seeped through his fingers and into the food. He slammed a dish towel onto the counter. The sound echoed in the quiet kitchen.
Elara flinched but didn't back away. She reached out and put a hand on his forearm. Her touch was light, but it sent a jolt through him. "Hey," she said, her voice low. "It's okay. Your passion is there. I see it every day. The technique… that will come."
He looked down at her hand on his arm, then into her eyes. She actually believed it. She believed in him. And that belief was a knife twisting in his gut. He was failing her. He wanted to say something, anything, but the words were caught behind a wall of shame. He just nodded, and she slowly pulled her hand away.
An hour later, they closed. Sal gave him a tired pat on the back and left. Elara finished her side work, wiped down the last empty table, and wished him a good night. "See you tomorrow, Jax," she'd said.
Now, he was alone. The silence of the dining room was a physical weight. He walked to his small office in the back, a room barely big enough for a desk and a chair. He turned on the single desk lamp. The weak yellow light illuminated a mountain of paper. Invoices from suppliers. Utility bills. Rent notices. Most of them were stamped with a bright, angry red: OVERDUE.
He sat down and pulled out the bank statement he'd been avoiding all week. His finger traced the line at the bottom. The number was brutally small. He did the math, his big hands clumsy with the pen. Payroll for Sal and Elara. The produce delivery that was coming tomorrow, cash on delivery because the company had cut off his credit. The rent, already a week late.
It wasn't enough. It wasn't even close.
He had maybe a week. Two, if he sold the espresso machine and begged the landlord for an extension. Then it was over. Romano's, the only clean thing he had ever tried to build, was dead. He leaned forward, burying his face in his hands. The dream was gone. All that was left was an empty room, the lingering smell of burnt sauce, and the bitter taste of his own failure.