Were I to recount the bizarre and harrowing sequence of events that led me to this moment—sitting in a prison cell, watching a horror montage of the funeral of the very man who murdered my parents—you'd likely be utterly dumbfounded. And frankly, with nothing but time to kill during the twenty-five years I'm condemned to rot behind these iron bars, I might as well begin my tale now.
It was about twenty-seven years ago, give or take a season, when a chef — not just any chef, but the most famous chef of Italy— opened a restaurant near where I lived. Even then, people spoke his name like it was sacred. He wasn't just famous; he was legendary, the kind of man whose face was on wine bottles and magazine covers, whose recipes were said to make grown men weep.
When he came to our sleepy little town, it was as if something holy had descended on us. His restaurant, all fancy and expensive, opened quietly one spring evening, and by the following week, the line outside stretched down 7 blocks. Every night, without fail, men in linen suits and women in silk shawls would gather beneath the streetlamps, waiting for their turn to be let inside.
People talked about the food like it was magic — handmade pastas in broths that tasted of the sea, meat so tender it barely held together, and wine that seemed to stop time.
I never got to try it. My parents couldn't afford to take us, and I was too proud to say I cared. I told myself I didn't need any of it. Back then, I was too wrapped up in my own little world to think much about food or fame. I was young, self-involved, and maybe a bit foolish.
I remember the day too clearly a bit too much for my own liking. It was one of those summer days that felt more like punishment than weather—where the sun didn't just shine, it beat down like it had a grudge. The kind of heat that makes your skin sting and keeps people locked inside, blinds drawn, praying for a breeze that never comes.
It was quiet most of the day, almost uncannily so. Then evening came—and with it, everything changed
There was fire. It didn't look like a kitchen accident, not some trash bin flaring up—this was big. Violent. Out of control. I remember the smoke first, thick and dark, curling up into the sky. Then the screams started. People were running, shouting names, looking for loved ones. Sirens cut through it all—fire trucks, ambulances, cop cars, all trying to push their way through the panic.
I vividly recall my father clutching my shoulders tightly while my mother was frantically pacing around room wondering what she could do to help.
Then i saw it....I saw the chefs wife and daughter being carried out of the restaurant, they had horrid scars, cuts and burns engraved on their bodies. My father probably noticed my eyes misting when he sorrowfully drew the curtains.
A few days later we found out that the chef's beloved wife and daughter tragically passed away. We were invited to the funeral as my mother was acquaintances with the chef's wife.
I was wearing a suit in such horrible weather. By the end of the funeral I might have sweat enough to fill at least two buckets of it. My mother was consoling relatives while my father was awkwardly standing paying his respects near the coffin.
What intrigued me the most the chef, he was no where to be found. I assumed he was too much in grief to handle the funeral but turns out I was wrong.
He was in a deep coma, the fire had effected him too.
From what i had known he was able to escape but I was terribly wrong. People were saying he was much too close to the fire, he was burnt in several different ways. Some rumors were spread that the whole fire incident was a plan of a rival restaurant but no one could tell how the fire had actually spread. The police were still investigating and the prime suspect was the owner of the rival restaurant.
The following week the police had unexpectedly closed the case saying it was a normal kitchen fire.
At first people were skeptical but then probably after a month or so they had already moved on with their lives