I blinked. “That’s a fortune in seafood, more than my credit extension covers.”
“Yep. And”—she held up a finger—“he’s also setting aside first-pick fatty tuna for us every week. Said he doesn’t care what other vendors offer, it’s ours. He totally believes in your comeback.”
For the first time in weeks, the air in my chest felt lighter. “You’re a miracle worker.”
She smirked. “I know. Now feed me another one of those rolls before I change my mind.”
So I did. And for the first time since everything started falling apart, it felt like maybe—just maybe—we were about to set the place on fire in all the right ways.
14
It had been a long time since my commute to the restaurant felt this good. I walked with a bounce in my step, a smile on my face, and my dreams of a comeback within reach.
As I stepped off the train, sunlight spread across my face, warming my smile. I pulled my phone from my pocket.
Three missed calls. All from an unknown number. No messages. No voicemails.
Probably a vendor. Or another debt collector I’d overlooked, sniffing blood in the water. Either way, I wasn’t answering. Miki was the point person now, and she was killing it. I shoved the phone deep into my coat pocket.
As I walked, something felt off. I couldn’t place it until I realized it was the air. It carried a sharp, acrid edge—like burned toast. At first, I thought it might’ve been from the bakery down the block, but the smell only grew stronger with each step. It clung to my clothes, curled inside my nose, made my stomach tighten.
But then I saw the smoke. Not wisps. Billows.
Half a block out, a crowd clogged the intersection, phones up, murmuring, pointing. Some were filming. They weren’t blocking the sidewalk, but they all faced the same direction. My stomach dropped. I pushed through.
The second I turned the corner, my heart bottomed out.
Flames ripped through the roof of Ono Omakase. Smoke poured from the shattered front windows, curling upward into a black column that darkened the morning sky. Firefighters shouted over the roar. A hose arced water against the blaze, but the building was already gone. Part of the roof had caved in. The sign above the door was half melted and hanging uselessly on one hook.
I stood frozen, mouth open, keys still clutched in my hand as a police barrier snapped into place in front of me. The heat rolled toward me even from across the street. My comeback menu had promised fire; I just never thought it would answer.
A window exploded, spraying glass across the pavement. The air reeked of burning wood and melted plastic.
I moved before I could think, stepping toward the barrier. “That’s my restaurant!” I shouted, but a uniformed arm shot out, stopping me cold.
“You can’t go in there,” the officer said.
“You don’t understand. Everything I have is in there!” My voice cracked, but it didn’t matter. The arm held firm.
Through the flames I caught flashes of the life I’d built: the first plate I’d served here, the long nights prepping with Miki, Jiro laughing in the kitchen. All of it being eaten alive.
Another section of roof collapsed with a sharp boom, and the crowd gasped.
Ono Omakase, the dream I’d fought so hard to rebuild, was burning to ash.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t.
And yet beneath the shock, something darker stirred. This couldn’t be random. That was impossible. Not after everything that had happened.
Someone had lit this match.
15
Ono Omakase was gone, and with it, my dream of being a Michelin-starred chef.
First Reina’s ghost, then the restaurant faltering, then Jiro vanishing, and now this. Like the universe was hell bent on shoving me back a hundred years for daring to take one step forward. Debt had already buried me to the neck; this fire was the shovel’s final scoop.
An arm hooked gently through mine. I turned to find Miki leaning into me. At some point she’d appeared without me noticing. Her cheeks were wet. Mine too. Neither of us had words for what had happened or for the gravity of it all.
