Chapter 4:Burnt Edges and Honest Heat

Three days later, Amara found herself back at Terra e Fiamma, standing in front of a prep counter with a black apron tied around her waist. What had started as a spontaneous food tasting had somehow turned into a trial shift.

“You sure about this?” she’d asked Luca when he called her the day before.

“No,” he said. “But I want to see what happens when someone like you steps into my kitchen. Could be chaos. Could be magic.”

That was Luca: equal parts confidence and curiosity, as if the world was one big pot waiting for his next bold ingredient.

So here she was, sleeves rolled, hair pinned up, and trying not to feel like an imposter.

The kitchen was a world of its own. The clang of pans, the hiss of boiling water, the shouts of sous chefs—all choreographed into a kind of beautiful madness. Luca moved like a conductor through it all, issuing commands in short bursts. Everything about him was sharp—his focus, his knife skills, even his patience. Especially when it ran out.

“Amara,” he called, “how are we doing on the zucchini fritters?”

She glanced down at the frying pan in front of her. “They’re almost golden.”

He appeared at her elbow, leaned in, and sniffed. “Almost is close. But not perfect.”

He reached around her and gently flipped one. “You want that edge crispy, not burnt. And always let them rest on paper towel—not a plate. You want that oil out.”

She didn’t move, aware of how close he was. “Do you teach all your staff this hands-on?”

He smirked without looking at her. “Only the ones I trust not to drop the pan.”

Her heart did a strange skip. “That’s a low bar.”

“I’m Italian. I romanticize low bars.”

Amara laughed, turning back to the fryer. “You always this charming in the kitchen?”

“Only when I’m trying to poach talent.”

“Is that what I am?”

“I don’t know what you are yet,” he said honestly. “But I like finding out.”

Something hot curled low in her belly—not just from the fryer. From the way he said it. Like she wasn’t just part of the staff—but part of something unfolding.

They worked through lunch prep, then plated for a soft launch with a few press people and food influencers. Amara moved between the tables, explaining dishes, collecting feedback, watching Luca’s empire come alive from the inside.

By evening, the last of the guests had left, and the staff started cleaning down. Amara wiped the last of the counters when Luca emerged from the back, two plates in hand.

“Peace offering,” he said.

She looked up, surprised. “For what?”

“For yelling at Marco when you were clearly the one who burnt the bread.”

Her jaw dropped. “I did not!”

He grinned. “I know. But Marco can take it.”

She shook her head. “You’re evil.”

“Efficient,” he corrected, sliding one of the plates toward her. “Try the truffle gnocchi. Tell me if it sings.”

They sat on upturned crates at the back of the kitchen, eating like old friends. It was quiet now. Just the hum of the dishwasher and the faint echo of music playing through someone’s phone.

“This place…” Amara said between bites. “It’s not just a restaurant. It feels like something bigger.”

“It is,” Luca replied. “It’s a second chance.”

She raised an eyebrow. “For who?”

“For me,” he said simply.

He didn’t elaborate, but the words hung in the air, honest and raw.

She nodded. “I know something about second chances.”

He glanced at her, something unreadable in his expression. “What happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Amara paused. She could lie, or dodge, or pretend her life was neat and unscarred. But something about Luca made her want to answer honestly.

“I was engaged,” she said finally. “Young, stupid, hopeful. He left before Noah turned one. Said he ‘wasn’t ready.’” She shrugged. “I stopped waiting for anyone to be ready after that.”

Luca was quiet for a moment. “You didn’t fall apart?”

“Oh, I fell,” she said softly. “But Noah needed me standing. So I got back up.”

Luca didn’t speak, but she felt something shift between them. A crack opening. A door creaking.

“You’re stronger than half the people I know,” he murmured.

“I don’t feel strong. I feel… tired.”

He smiled, slow and sincere. “Sometimes tired means you’re still standing. That’s strength too.”

Their eyes met.

And for a second—just a second—the kitchen wasn’t a kitchen. It was a space suspended between two people who saw each other not just for their roles, but for who they were under the weight of survival.

Luca’s hand brushed hers as he reached for his glass.

The contact was accidental.

Or maybe not.

But it lingered, soft and electric.

He didn’t pull away.

Neither did she.