Micah had spent his entire life inside kitchens. His mother and father owned an Italian restaurant, and from the age of four, he was slicing the tomatoes like a pro. When his father passed of a sudden heart attack when he was only fourteen, he dropped out of school to work full time, so they didn't lose it.

And they didn't. But his mother got sick, and while she got better, she wasn't as fast in the kitchen anymore. So it became Micah's thing. His restaurant, on the corner of fifth and Broadway, where old Italians came to eat and no one else. That was the issue. No one else. Just the same five guys who knew his dad back in the day and the occasional dinner dates.

It wasn't like Micah could exactly close the place, but he sure wished he could. The tireless days, the lack of customers. He was a good chef, he was, but no one came.

It was another heated night, but not heated because of how swamped they were. Heated because of how empty it was. Not even Donnie came in, his pa's friend who usually came in on Thursday's. Micah threw his towel at the countertop, his prep cook and other chef not saying a word as they watched.

"This is bullshit. We're off Broadway. We should be getting tons of fat, hungry fucks." He growled, hands shaking. He already needed a cigarette. Micah was trying to quit, but he couldn't. God knew he couldn't.