Episode 4

I was arriving home. I lived alone, as I always preferred. I didn’t like too many people in my space; even my security guards always stayed outside. That day had been long as hell. I arrived around two in the afternoon, after taking care of some business at the luxury club, our main spot for money laundering. The Martinez family had several establishments, but that one was my field, my territory.

As soon as I entered, I went straight to the bathroom. The afternoon was hot, and I needed to get rid of the day's weight. The water ran down my body as I thought about everything I had done. Accounts settled, deals signed, and some problems resolved in the traditional way.

After my shower, I went to the kitchen. I wanted a drink, something to ease the heat. But as soon as I entered, I noticed something strange. Something out of place.

My eyes scanned the room and disgust came instantly. Someone had messed with my things. Utensils, spices… everything moved, out of order. Every detail different from how I had left it. Shit. This irritated me more than anything else. I liked my things exactly as I left them, in the right position. Precise, organized.

I sighed deeply and put everything back in its place. The stress of the day was already high, and this shit only made it worse. It could only have been the new head chef.

I went to the fridge to get a drink when I noticed a small note stuck to it. I picked up the paper and read it quickly.

I twisted my mouth. Was it on purpose? Or did Concepcion forget to tell this woman that I don’t like little notes scattered around my house?

Without wasting time, I picked up my phone and dialed.

"Fire the new chef." My voice came out cold, sharp.

On the other side, Concepcion hesitated.

"Señor Martinez…" She tried to argue, but I didn’t let her.

I hung up on her. She got the message.

I threw the paper in the trash, already forgetting that shit, but the next instant my phone slipped from my hand and fell right into the bin.

"Joder (fuck)…" I cursed, out of patience.

I rummaged through the trash and picked up the phone, but that wasn’t all I found. A piece of paper. A different note.

Curiosity made me unfold it, and as soon as I read it, I felt heat rise through my body.

The audacity of this cook...

"Mr. Grumpy, before you eat, put a pinch of smoked paprika in the sauce. It will make you smile. If you're capable of that, of course."

Insolent, cheeky, bold. Insulting me without the slightest ceremony. As if I were some random idiot.

I almost laughed at the petulance, but the urge to make this woman swallow her words was stronger. Who does she think she is to talk about me like that? I could have her fingers cut off to teach her not to write shit, but at that moment…

I was hungry.

Saved by hunger.

I took the dishes she had left ready, heated them up, and sat at the table with my drink.

At the first forkful, I stopped. The flavor filled my mouth in an unexpected way.

It was good.

Very good.

What the hell.

Whatever this woman had in audacity, she had in talent.

I continued eating, each bite convincing me more. Then, I took the paprika and put it in the sauce. The instant the spice mixed with the food, I was thrown into another moment.

That flavor…

It reminded me of my mother.

The exact taste of her food. Something I hadn’t tasted in years.

I paused for a moment, still feeling that taste in my mouth.

I let out a sigh, rethinking my decision. I picked up my phone again and called Concepcion.

"Forget it. You don’t need to fire her." My voice came out lower, but still firm. "But tell her that this kitchen has rules. No inconvenient notes and no mess."

There was a silence on the other end of the line, but before she could speak, I continued:

"And tell her to be more careful about what she writes about me. Next time, she won’t have fingers to write with."

I hung up before hearing any reply.

The cook would get the message.

After college, I returned to the house of Mr. Don't-Touch-Me.

I got my first scolding on my first day. Impressive. I barely arrived and I'm already a walking problem. The housekeeper talked so much I think my brain froze mid-speech. Something about not messing where I shouldn't, keeping everything in order, not leaving notes, and not insulting the big boss of the house.

Well… that last piece of advice came too late.

If he read the note I threw away, I was screwed.

Seriously, I almost gave up on going. But I took a deep breath, gathered the pieces of my dignity, and went.

Upon arriving, the house was silent. No sign of the grumpy, badass mobster. Great. I did everything as requested, following the rules like an exemplary student. I prepared one of the dishes he liked:

Filet with smoked paprika sauce, rustic potatoes, and a touch of fresh herbs.

The meat was perfectly cooked, seared and juicy, the sauce rich, and the potatoes golden, crispy on the outside, soft on the inside. If that didn’t make the asshole boss sigh with pleasure, nothing else would.

I put everything on the platter and was about to finish when I realized I was missing an ingredient for the final sauce.

"But of course… it could only happen to me!" I muttered, exasperated.

With no other option, I went to the pantry.

It was a large, narrow room, with shelves full of ingredients. I went in, looking for what I needed.

But where was it?

I fumbled along the shelves, stretching, trying to read the labels in the dim light… and then...

The door closed behind me.

In the same second, my heart started racing.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit!

I tried to turn the doorknob. Nothing.

I pushed the door. Nothing.