Chapter 9 - WHEN THE KITCHEN BURNED AGAIN|
By the time Luca and I reached the Open Table kitchen, fire engines filled the street.
Red lights flashed across the brick buildings.
Firefighters pulled hoses through the entrance while neighbors gathered behind the emergency barriers.
Smoke poured from the windows that had once displayed Mrs. Elena's smiling face.
I pushed toward the crowd.
"Rosa!"
A police officer stopped me.
"Ma'am, you need to stay behind the line."
"My friend is inside!"
The officer turned toward the fire captain.
I saw them exchange a few urgent words.
Then a firefighter disappeared through the entrance with another member of the rescue crew.
Luca stood beside me.
He didn't try to push past the emergency workers.
He simply held his phone tightly while his eyes searched every person coming out of the building.
One volunteer emerged coughing.
Then another.
A young man stumbled onto the sidewalk carrying a kitchen towel over his mouth.
But Rosa wasn't with them.
I grabbed his arm.
"Where is she?"
He coughed.
"She went back to check the storage room."
My heart seemed to stop.
"Why?"
"She thought someone was still inside."
I turned toward the burning doorway.
For one terrible second, I considered running through it.
Then Luca caught my wrist.
"Claire."
"She's in there!"
"I know."
His expression was pale.
"The firefighters know where to look."
I hated standing still.
I hated hearing the windows crack.
Most of all, I hated knowing that somebody might be dying because we had found a dead woman's recipe book.
Then a firefighter appeared at the entrance.
Another followed, helping a small figure wrapped in a protective blanket.
Rosa.
I started crying before I realized she was alive.
Paramedics guided her to an ambulance.
She was conscious but struggling to catch her breath.
I knelt beside her as a medic checked her condition.
"Rosa, why did you go back?"
She tried to smile.
"I thought Tommy was still washing dishes."
"Tommy was already outside."
"I know that now."
Her voice was weak.
"I couldn't leave if somebody might still be there."
I wanted to scold her.
Instead, I held her hand.
"Please don't ever frighten me like that again."
She squeezed my fingers.
"Your Elena used to say the same thing."
Luca approached the ambulance.
Rosa looked at him.
"Your mother would be furious about this."
He nodded.
"She would."
"Not because of the building."
Rosa coughed.
"Because the people who eat here won't know where to go tomorrow."
Luca looked toward the burning kitchen.
"I'll make sure they have somewhere."
That night, while Rosa remained at the hospital for observation, I stood outside the building with several volunteers.
The firefighters had extinguished the blaze.
The windows were black.
The roof above the storage area had been severely damaged.
Water covered the floor.
Mrs. Elena's photographs were scattered among broken glass and ruined furniture.
I picked up one photograph that had fallen near the entrance.
It showed her standing behind a long table at Christmas, wearing a red apron and smiling at a little boy who had just received a plate of food.
The corner was burned.
But her face had survived.
I held it against my chest.
"Not again," I whispered.
Luca stood beside me.
"What?"
"They don't get to destroy her twice."
He didn't answer immediately.
Then he took off his coat and placed it around my shoulders.
"Tell me what you need."
I looked at the ruined kitchen.
"Tables."
"Done."
"Food."
"Done."
"Somewhere the volunteers can cook tomorrow."
He nodded.
"And I want Rosa to make the decisions when she's better."
Luca glanced at me.
"Of course."
The next morning, a neighborhood church offered its fellowship hall.
A local restaurant donated refrigeration space.
Three grocery stores sent food.
Volunteers who had eaten at Open Table years earlier returned carrying pots, dishes, and folding chairs.
By noon, we were serving soup.
There was no marble.
No chandelier.
No million-dollar kitchen.
But there was enough food for everyone who walked through the door.
I looked around the crowded room and understood why Mrs. Elena had loved the place so much.
A kitchen wasn't important because of what it cost.
It was important because of who was welcome inside.
That afternoon, Detective Torres called.
Fire investigators had found evidence suggesting the blaze had been deliberately set.
A nearby business had also provided security footage showing a delivery vehicle near the building shortly before the first smoke was reported.
The vehicle was connected to a contractor that had recently worked for Bellini Development.
It wasn't enough by itself to identify the person responsible.
But it was another link investigators could follow.
Later that evening, Gabriel met Luca at the mansion.
I was there to collect a few documents Eleanor needed.
Gabriel looked deeply troubled.
"Sir, I reviewed the internal access records."
Luca frowned.
"What did you find?"
"Someone on our security team copied the Open Table volunteer schedule."
"Who?"
Gabriel hesitated.
"Owen Cross."
I knew Owen.
He had worked at the mansion for three years.
He was quiet, respectful, and always volunteered for overnight assignments.
Luca's face hardened.
"Where is he now?"
Gabriel looked down.
"He's assigned to your father's guesthouse tonight."
The room went silent.
Frank Moretti lived alone in that guesthouse.
And the man who had apparently helped someone learn when the community kitchen would be vulnerable was now responsible for protecting him.
Luca reached for his phone.
But Gabriel was already calling the security supervisor.
For several terrifying seconds, nobody answered.
Then the line connected.
Gabriel listened.
His expression changed.
"Sir."
Luca looked up.
"Owen has left his post."
"Where's my father?"
May you like
Gabriel swallowed.
"We don't know yet."
