Sin & Savior

CHAPTER 3, PART 1

"What the FUCK did you just call me?" a disrespected voice called out in an elevated tone through the quiet murmur of the restaurant. Alinea was known for dishes and atmosphere that challenged traditional dining norms by encouraging playful interaction with food, where meals served in unconventional and surprising ways were the norm, regulating that each meal become its own independently memorable event. But here, now, the most memorable event of all the restaurateurs that evening would be the unexpected outburst from The Kitchen Table area, seating 2 for an up-close view of the famed 3-Michelin Star restaurant's intimate, immersive experience of close-up culinary artistry and multi-sensory fine dining experiences with experimental notes. In one of the most critically acclaimed establishments of consumption the country had to offer: a duology of storm and scorn was threatening to subject the atmosphere itself into abduction.

"If you do not quiet your tone, BOY, and do so immediately: I'm going to sue you for breach of contract, all the clientele you withdrew or terminated from representation will have been for absolutely nothing, and within 5 minutes on a phone call full of negative press: I will fucking bury you, and it won't require an hour of my day to do so. I suggest you mind your place. You elected it for yourself, so settle in and settle in QUICKLY," he said in barely a hushed whisper. Gianmarco fumed beneath the table: his fists furled into bludgeons, but he settled for stamping his expensive monk strap shoes onto the ground beneath him — for as eager as he was to put up a fight in the defense of his own honor: he knew better. Ronel Sorgic was far from the kind of man you'd want to have you by the balls, and he was too much of a fool to identify the fine print where it wasn't written on paper into their relationship's contractual agreement. Knowing he could evaporate this man in less time than it'd take to draw breath... and convince every inhabitant of the restaurant he was never seated there to begin with and recounting why he didn't were the only things keeping him sane in the face of the fury rising up within him.

"Breathe," he told himself thoughtfully, with eyes closed and full of surrender and silence. The restaurant, while utterly redefining the boundaries of contemporary dining experience, was far from hall, house, or home to the kind of combat Marco sought to engage in right now. But he'd settle his spirit, or risk losing every piece of progress he'd gathered up to build himself to this point. The impetus to do things correctly in this dimension of this new universe was all the motive he needed to stay his soul against the sea raging inside him. "You are here to learn how to let the things that enrage you, go. So get started," he thought powerfully to himself, before opening his eyes.

"Let me be clear," he stated assertively in affirmative, "I am no 'Boy,' YOUR 'Boy,' nor anyone else's boy. I will rot in a grave without a penny to my name before I ever allow you to breach that barrier of common decency and respect without any consequences. If I were to say that term in reference to you - I'd be called a racist. You're not going to disrespect me to my face, no matter WHAT the outcome may be. There are no ends more terrifying than allowing myself to be dehumanized by another mortal man. So make whatever call you fucking need to, but if you call me that ever again: my refusal to represent you is written in stone. Do I make myself perfectly clear?" he said, shooting as best he could with the ball in his court.

"Fair enough, Boy," Ronel squarely stated, pulling out his telephone, navigating to a contact titled "Chicago Sun-Times," and pressed the call button, placing it swiftly next to his ear before turning his chair sideways, breaking eye contact with Gianmarco. Before he knew why: Marco's body stood up on its own and snatched the telephone from Ronel's hand, ending the call before he could respond.