Page 30 of Beautiful Ruin

When no one comes, he sighs. “If you insist, you will do it correctly. Dima will show you.”

The boy with the curls frowns down at the pot.

“Me?”

The chef doesn’t look at him. “Are there two Dimas in this kitchen?”

“No, Chef.”

“Then yes. You.”

Dima mutters something too low for me to catch, though I suspect it is not at all complimentary. The head chef reaches to the side, grabs a knife from the magnetic strip, and thrusts it toward me handle-first. The blade gleams wickedly under the kitchen lights.

I take it.

The weight of it startles me momentarily, heavier than the little knives in my university apartment I used to cook with when I got tired of dining hall food and had no energy to go out to a formal restaurant.

The chef points toward the prep station where a mountain of carrots, onions, and celery waits. “Start there.”

I roll up my sleeves and get to work. The station smells earthy and sweet. Carrot peels cling damply to the side of a metal bowl from someone having already half-finished the job. The papery skins from a few onions are scattered across the counter. Celery stalks are stacked neatly to the side, none of them touched.

For a moment I just look at all of it, absurdly aware that I have written essays on state violence and institutional legitimacy but have no idea how to properly dice an onion under the scrutiny of a chef who looks like he would rather face an execution squad than tolerate a poorly chopped carrot.

I grab one of the carrots and position my knife over it, hesitating while trying to get my fingers in the right placement. Dima slides in beside me a moment later, passing his soup spoon off to another assistant before looking at me. “You’re doing it wrong. Thumb tucked in or you’ll lose it.”

I glance down at where my fingers are wrapped awkwardly around the first carrot. “I know how to use a knife.”

“Sure,” he says dryly. “Everyone says that until one chop has them bleeding all over the mirepoix.”

My brow raises. “What’s mirepoix?”

His eyes widen in theatrical horror. “Oh, boy.”

He reaches over me to adjust the angle of the carrot on the board, then his hand comes around to tuck my fingers in before drawing the blade down. “Like this. Fingers curled. Knuckles forward. Let the blade rest against them. Go slow. We don’t need you walking out of here with one less finger to manicure later.”

The first cut is clumsy and way too thick to mirror the ones inside the metal bowl. The second is even worse than that.

Dima winces like I’ve offended him personally. “Not cubes. Chunks. We aren’t trying to cause choking.”

“I’m trying.”

“Not like that.”

I huff at him. “You’re very bossy.”

He looks at me, a wry smile crossing his face. “You walked into a kitchen and asked for work. What did you expect?”

There is something unexpectedly soothing about the exchange that has me relaxing. Dima doesn’t seem frightened of me so much as mildly inconvenienced, and the chef, while clearly irritated by my existence in his domain, treats my inept presence as more of a problem to work around rather than fear at my last name.

I hadn’t realized how badly I needed this, to be scolded for something ordinary and allowed to make myself useful in a room where no one has time to handle me delicately.

The work absorbs me faster than I expect. I move through the carrots first, then work on the celery, moving slowly as I get the hang of using a large kitchen utensil. My eyes sting when I get to the onions, making it difficult to see through my tears.

Dima notices and smirks. “Crying from the work already?”

I point the knife at him before remembering that doing so at people in a Bratva estate is probably poor etiquette. “It’s the onion.”

“Of course.” His gaze drops to the blade, nodding to it. “Thumb tucked.”