Chapter 1- Burnt Beginnings

Chapter 1 – Burnt Beginnings

Part 1 – Dinner Disaster

Leo’s bistro struggles through a disastrous dinner service, setting the tone for his desperation.

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The smell hit first — scorched rice, bitter as ashes. It curled through the bistro like an insult, sharp enough to wrinkle the noses of the five unlucky customers who had chosen to eat here tonight.

“Excuse me!” A man in a too-tight tie stood up, waving his fork. “Is risotto supposed to crunch?”

From the open kitchen, Leonardo Ferris lifted his head from the pan like a man waking from a nightmare. Sweat clung to his temples. The pan hissed angrily at him, its contents blackening further no matter how he stirred.

“It’s… al dente,” Leo tried, forcing a grin. His voice cracked halfway.

The man’s date dabbed her lips with a napkin, eyes cold. “It’s burnt.”

Leo dropped the spoon into the sink with a clatter. “Right. I’ll fix it. No problem.” His smile twitched like a pulled muscle.

Before he could salvage anything, the front door creaked open. A gust of perfume and cologne swept in, followed by the sharp sound of expensive laughter.

Anton Volkov.

Leo didn’t need to look — he could feel the man’s presence like vinegar poured into cream. Tall, sleek in his chef’s whites despite not working tonight, Anton strutted into the nearly empty bistro with a date who glittered in sequins. His voice carried like a trumpet.

“Leonardo, mon ami! I had a craving for comedy, and where better than your kitchen?”

The date giggled. Anton leaned close to whisper loud enough for everyone to hear: “He trained in Paris, you know. Paris. And look at him now. Burning rice in a shoebox.”

Leo gripped the counter so hard his knuckles whitened. “We’re closed,” he growled, though it wasn’t true.

Anton waved a hand, strolling to a table. “Nonsense. I adore supporting small businesses. One wine, two glasses. And your best dish — oh wait, that was sarcasm.”

The other customers were already muttering, forks down. One woman shoved her plate aside. “I’m not paying for this.” She stood, tossed her napkin onto the table, and stormed out, dragging her companion with her.

The bistro’s bell jangled as the door slammed shut. Silence followed, except for Anton’s smug laughter.

Leo’s chest burned hotter than the pan. He wanted to throw something — the pan, the spoon, Anton himself — but instead he yanked off his apron and snapped: “Dinner’s over. Everybody out.”

One by one, the diners left, muttering about Yelp reviews. Anton lingered, savoring the chaos. At last, with a bow and a wink, he ushered his sequined date out the door.

Leo stood alone in the ruins of dinner service — scorched pans, sour wine, empty chairs.

He whispered to himself: “Grandma, why didn’t I just become an accountant?”