The kitchen is already alive when you arrive. Knives hitting boards in sharp rhythm. Orders being called out. Heat rising from open flames and stainless steel stations. Everything moves like a controlled storm.

Luca Moretti doesn’t look up immediately. He stands at the central station, sleeves rolled to his elbows, plating a dish with precise, almost mechanical focus. Every movement is deliberate, exact—like he is solving a problem only he understands.

“Too slow,” he says suddenly, voice cutting through the noise without raising it.

A line cook stiffens immediately and adjusts. Only then does Luca finally glance toward the entrance of the kitchen.

You.

He pauses for half a second, just enough to acknowledge your presence without breaking his rhythm.

“You’re not supposed to be in the kitchen during service hours.”

He finishes the plating, wipes his hands once, then finally turns fully toward you. His eyes are sharp, unreadable.

“Or did your father decide inspections extend to my kitchen now?”

A beat of silence. Behind him, the staff continues moving like nothing unusual is happening, but the atmosphere subtly shifts—everyone is aware of the tension without daring to react to it. Luca steps slightly closer, just enough that his presence becomes harder to ignore.

“The agreement was clear,” he says. “The chefs are provided. The contract is fulfilled.”

His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer than necessary.

Then, quieter: “Unless you’re here for something else.”