Chapter 1

Paul Geller sat hunched over a stainless-steel countertop, the harsh fluorescent lights above bouncing off copper pots and gleaming knives. His apron was dusted in flour, his hair damp with sweat, but his hands moved with practiced precision as he sliced through ripe San Marzano tomatoes. He wasn’t following a recipe—he didn’t need to. The rhythm of chopping, the fragrance of basil torn fresh from its stalk, the hiss of garlic sizzling in olive oil—these were as natural to him as breathing. Cooking wasn’t his work. It was his heartbeat.

Still, even as the kitchen filled with the deep, sun-sweet smell of tomato sauce, Paul’s chest was tight. Around him, his classmates were buzzing—not about food, but about the summer. About their futures…

“Can you believe it?” said Miles, one of his closest friends. Miles was tall, lanky, and forever brushing his curly hair out of his eyes. He had a laugh that filled every room, but behind it, an iron focus that made him ruthless in the kitchen. “Three months in New York! Three months! And if I don’t burn the place down, they’re basically promising me a full position after graduation.”

“You won’t burn it down,” chimed in Naomi, the lone girl in their tight-knit group. She had an energy that could make even dull lectures fun, a sharp tongue, and a gift for pastries that bordered on magic. She nudged him with her elbow, smirking. “You’ll just drown the place in beurre blanc. Some poor soul will slip and break their neck.”

Miles made a wounded sound. “Unfair. You love my sauces.”

“Love? Please.” Naomi rolled her eyes dramatically. “I tolerate them. Barely.”

Their banter was easy, familiar, and infectious. Paul usually laughed along, but today, he could only force a smile. Across the table, Julien—the third in their circle—kept quiet, focused on plating his dish with his usual perfection. Julien was the most precise of them, a perfectionist whose clean lines and immaculate taste had landed him an internship in Paris. Paris. The culinary capital of the world.

Paul had tried to be happy for them. They deserved it. Each of them had worked like hell, sacrificing sleep and social lives, pouring themselves into their craft. But watching them—watching the way Naomi’s face lit up when she talked about her upcoming bakery internship in San Francisco, or the way Julien’s eyes sparked whenever Paris came up—it stirred a knot in his stomach he couldn’t untangle.

He had nothing.

No internship. No leads. Just another summer looming ahead, one more season of working odd jobs, cooking at home, pretending he wasn’t terrified of falling behind.

And of course, there was Dad. His father loved him, Paul knew that. But ever since Mom had passed away—cancer, three years ago, the kind of loss that leaves the house forever quieter—his father’s gaze had been heavy. Watchful. Expectant. As though Paul were a project that needed careful guiding, or worse, as though Paul were the only thing left in his father’s world, and he couldn’t afford to screw it up.

The clang of a ladle snapped Paul out of his spiraling thoughts. Chef David Eatersburg, their instructor, strode to the front of the room. A massive man with a trimmed gray beard and a booming voice, he commanded the kitchen with effortless authority. He surveyed the room, inhaled deeply, and then nodded once.

“Not bad,” he said. “Not bad at all. Julien—your plating, as always, could go in a textbook. Naomi—your tart held its structure. Good. Miles—your sauce is almost too acidic, but I’ll let you fix it before service.” His eyes landed on Paul. “And you.”

Paul stiffened.

Chef David set down his clipboard and lifted Paul’s plate—a simple arrabbiata he had thrown together in half the time of his classmates. He tasted it silently, his face giving away nothing. Then, slowly, he set the fork down.

“You remind me why I love teaching,” David said. His voice was quieter now, meant only for Paul, but everyone in the kitchen could hear. “You’re not following rules. You’re making them. Very well done.”

Heat rushed to Paul’s face. Compliments weren’t new—he knew he was good—but coming from Chef David, they felt different. He managed a stiff nod, muttering, “Thank you, Chef.”

Class dismissed, the kitchen emptied in a storm of chatter. Naomi waved goodbye, promising to text later. Miles clapped Paul on the shoulder and said, “Don’t mope, man. Something’ll come your way.” Julien, of course, just offered a polite nod before slipping out, already lost in thought.

But Paul barely noticed. Because Chef David’s voice stopped him cold.

“Geller,” he called. “Stay behind a minute.”

Paul’s stomach lurched. He gathered his things slowly, mind racing through possibilities. Was he in trouble? Had he done something wrong?

When the kitchen was empty, David crossed his arms and leaned against the counter. For the first time, he didn’t look like an imposing chef but like an older man about to share something heavy.

“You’re frustrated,” David said simply. “I can see it. Your friends have their paths laid out, and you… don’t. But you’re not behind, Paul. You’re not failing.” He paused, then lowered his voice. “And I have something to offer you. Something that won’t just put you on track—it’ll change everything.”

Paul’s pulse hammered. “What do you mean?”

David took a deep breath. “My best friend is Michael Calabrieri.”

Paul blinked. The name hit like a thunderclap. Michael Calabrieri. The Michael Calabrieri. The man whose restaurant, Trattoria Calabrieri, was practically legend. A temple of Italian cuisine where tables were booked months in advance. A place critics and food lovers spoke of in reverent tones.

“He and I go back decades,” David continued. “Every so often, Michael asks me to send him my best student. Someone he can take under his wing for the summer. It’s not a job. It’s an apprenticeship. You’ll train in every station, learn every corner of his kitchen. And when one of his older chefs retires—which they always do eventually—the apprentice is the first in line to replace them. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Paul swallowed hard. His hands trembled. “You… you want me to be that student?”

David’s smile was small, almost proud. “I’ve already told him about you. He trusts my word. The question is—do you want it?”

The answer burst out of him before he could think. “Yes! Of course I want it!”

And then, unable to stop himself, Paul stepped forward and hugged him. Chef David froze—professional boundaries and all that—but then patted his back once, gruffly.

Paul pulled away, breathless, tears prickling his eyes. “Thank you. You don’t know—thank you.”

The moment he left the building, he didn’t even make it to the street before dialing his father. The phone rang once before his dad picked up.

“Paul? Everything okay?”

“Dad,” Paul’s voice cracked. His throat tightened as the words tumbled out. “I… I got it. I got a job. Not just any job. I’m going to work at Trattoria Calabrieri. This summer. With Michael Calabrieri himself.”

There was silence on the line, and then his father let out a sound Paul had almost forgotten: a laugh. Warm, relieved, proud. “Paul,” he said, his voice thick, “your mother would be so damn proud of you. And I’m—God, I’m proud of you.”

Tears blurred Paul’s vision as he leaned against the brick wall outside the school. For the first time in months, maybe years, the weight pressing down on his chest lifted.

He wasn’t left behind. He wasn’t falling short. He was finally stepping into the life he was meant for.

Paul’s phone was still warm in his hand when he pulled into the driveway of his father’s house that evening. The air was heavy with late-spring humidity, cicadas humming in the trees, the scent of cut grass lingering from the neighbor’s yard. He could already hear voices spilling from inside—laughter, clinking glasses, the unmistakable chaos of a family gathering. His chest tightened. Dad hadn’t wasted a second.

The front door swung open before Paul even reached the porch. His father, Raymond Geller, filled the frame, a massive figure with a belly that strained against his T-shirt and a smile that practically split his face. His thick arms wrapped around Paul in a bear hug before Paul could speak.

“There he is!” Raymond bellowed. “The man of the hour!”

Paul laughed, muffled against his father’s chest. “Dad, you didn’t have to—”

“Oh, I had to. You think I was gonna let news like this just sit? Not a chance.” He pulled back, his eyes gleaming. “Come on. Everyone’s here. Even Grandma got out of her recliner.”

Inside, the living room had been transformed into a battlefield of paper plates, soda bottles, and pizza boxes stacked three high. The smell of pepperoni, garlic knots, and melted cheese lingered thick in the air. A store-bought banner reading Congratulations! sagged crookedly above the TV, held in place by strips of tape.

Paul barely had a moment to take it in before he was ambushed.

“Uncle Pauly!” A blur of sticky hands and wild curls launched itself into his arms—his three-year-old nephew, Henry. The boy’s face was smeared with chocolate frosting, his shirt bearing the evidence of both pizza sauce and soda.

Paul lifted him effortlessly, grinning. “You’ve been eating without me, huh?”

Henry nodded vigorously. “Grandpa let me have three slices already! And cake! And soda!”

“Three?” Paul arched an eyebrow, glaring playfully at his brother.

“Don’t look at me,” muttered Andrew, slouched on the couch with a controller in one hand and a slice of supreme pizza in the other. At twenty-nine, Andrew’s IT job had blessed him with a decent paycheck but also a sedentary lifestyle. His stomach pushed at his belt, and his face glistened slightly from the effort of reaching for his soda. “Dad’s the one who’s trying to kill the kid with carbs.”

“Relax,” Raymond said, grabbing a slice for himself. “It’s a celebration.”

On the armchair sat Andrew’s wife, Monica, petite and sharp-eyed, her legs crossed neatly as she kept a wary eye on her son. “Paul,” she said warmly, “congratulations. Andrew told me everything. This is… wow.” She was almost as much of a foodie as Paul, and was genuinely impressed.

Paul flushed, suddenly aware of all the gazes turning toward him.

At the dining table, Cousin Greg raised a slice of pepperoni like a toast. “About time you one-upped us, Pauly. If I have to hear my dad say the word ‘job market’ one more time, I’m moving to Canada.”

“Greg,” Uncle Walter cut in, shooting his son a look. Walter—Paul’s mother’s brother—was a man whose hair had gone gray too early, his face lined from years of stress and divorce. He raised his beer bottle toward Paul with a wry smile. “Don’t listen to him. We’re proud of you, kid. Really proud.”

The chorus of agreement rolled through the room.

Paul’s grandparents occupied the corner of the sofa, four pillars of family history gathered together: Grandpa Leo, stoic and quiet, whose hands still bore the roughness of decades in construction; Grandma Ruth, his wife, small and birdlike, her sharp eyes missing nothing; Grandpa Henry, a retired accountant with suspenders cutting into his belly; and Grandma Martha, the sweet but formidable matriarch who had been known to scold even Raymond when the mood struck.

“Come here, Paul,” Grandma Martha said, waving him over. “Let me see the face of the chef who’s finally getting what he deserves.”

Paul obeyed, letting her pinch his cheek as if he were still ten years old. “Grandma…”

“Don’t ‘Grandma’ me. You’ve worked hard. Your mother would…” She stopped, her voice faltering. Her hand lingered on his face for a long second before she released him.

The mention of Mom made the room still for a beat. Paul’s chest tightened again, but he smiled through it. “She’d say Dad bought overcooked pizza.. She wasn’t the hugest fan of Dinno’s.”

That broke the tension. Laughter erupted. Even Raymond barked a laugh, nearly choking on his bite.

“Speaking of,” he said, bustling toward the kitchen. “I made the cake. Don’t laugh. It looks like hell, but it’s your mother’s recipe.”

The cake appeared a moment later, lopsided and slathered with uneven layers of frosting. The icing had pooled in one corner, sliding toward the base like a slow avalanche. But the smell—warm vanilla with a hint of almond—was unmistakable. Paul’s throat caught as he inhaled it.

Everyone gathered around as Raymond set it on the table. He handed Paul the knife. “Go on. First cut’s yours.”

Paul hesitated, then sliced through the uneven frosting. The first bite melted on his tongue: soft sponge, sweet but not cloying, the exact balance his mother had perfected. He closed his eyes, letting it linger.

When he opened them, his father was watching him. Raymond’s eyes glistened in a way Paul rarely saw, and in that silent moment, Paul understood—this wasn’t just about the job. It was about carrying forward a legacy, about proving that his mother’s passion for food had taken root in him.

The room erupted into chatter again. Monica asked him what kind of work he’d be doing. Greg wanted to know if he could score free meals. Andrew, between bites, joked about getting “the fat brother discount.” His grandparents asked about the hours, the pay, the future prospects.

But Paul barely noticed. His gaze kept drifting back to the cake, to the frosting sliding down the side like it couldn’t hold itself together. Imperfect. Messy. And yet—beautiful. His mom would be proud of Dad… and well… she would be proud as fuck of him.