The Taste of Vengeance

They say revenge doesn’t taste as good as it smells, but let me tell you from experience—it’s all in the seasoning.

I can still smell the diner if I close my eyes long enough. Not the way it was after the fire, with that stench of ash and burnt grease. No, I mean the real diner. Mom’s tamales steaming in the back, the coffee that never stopped pouring, the way the grill hissed every morning when Dad slapped down the first order of the day.

That smell is gone now, replaced by something colder. Glass and steel. The high-rise casts its shadow over what used to be ours, and the only thing left of Mom’s is the sign—warped and blackened, half-buried in the dirt.

And that’s where I was, crouching down to pick up the scrap of menu, when I heard it. The engine. Smooth, low, like the purr of a predator. I didn’t have to look to know who it was.

The Burned-Out Diner

Daniel St. James always had a way of making you feel small. It wasn’t just the suits or the car or the smirk he wore like armor. It was the way he stood there, looking at the ruins of my family’s life like it was just another bad investment.

“Sad sight, isn’t it?” he said, stepping out of his Audi. The sun caught the polish on his shoes, so clean they didn’t even belong on this street.

I stood slowly, clutching the charred menu scrap in my hand.

“It’s a shame, really,” he went on, like we were old friends sharing a loss. “Couldn’t meet the zoning requirements. You know how it is. But hey, look on the bright side. That new restaurant you’re working in—La Vistana? That’s one of mine. So, in a way, you’re still with us.”

My fingers curled tight against the paper. It would’ve been so easy to knock that smirk clean off his face. A single punch. One moment of satisfaction. But I didn’t.

He adjusted his cufflinks, his smirk turning sharper. “I’ll leave you to it. Just thought I’d pay my respects.”

The Audi rolled away, the reflection of my face warping in the shiny black paint. I stayed there for a while, staring at the high-rise.

“They’re going to choke this whole neighborhood,” I said under my breath. Then quieter, “Not if I can help it.”

La Vistana

Walking into La Vistana after standing at the lot felt like stepping into a whole different world. The place was sleek and shiny, all polished counters and sharp lines. Nothing about it belonged in my neighborhood.

Isabella St. James was at the grill when I came in, her chef’s coat crisp and spotless. She had her head down, plating some kind of duck dish I couldn’t even name.

“You’re late,” she said, not even looking up.

“I stopped by the lot.”

Her hand froze for a second, the brush dripping some bright orange sauce onto the plate. Then she glanced up at me, her expression softening just enough to be noticeable before it went sharp again.

“It’s gone, Miguel. Move on.”

“Easy for you to say,” I shot back. “You didn’t lose everything.”

She put the plate down and gave me a hard look. “You think I haven’t lost anything?”

I followed her gaze to the dining room. Through the kitchen, I could see Daniel holding court with a table of investors, his laugh cutting through the clink of wine glasses.

“Then why stay?” I asked.

Her jaw tightened. She didn’t answer right away. When she did, her voice was quiet. “Because leaving isn’t always an option. And because someone has to keep this place standing.”

“Maybe it’s time to stop keeping it standing,” I said. “Maybe it’s time to burn it down.”

Her eyes snapped to mine, sharp and questioning. “You’re serious.”

“As a heart attack.”

The Plan

I didn’t expect her to agree. But the next night, she slid a folder across the counter while the kitchen staff was cleaning up. Inside were permits, contracts, and a whole lot of things I couldn’t pretend to understand.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Proof,” she said. “Everything Daniel’s done to cut corners, pay off inspectors, and screw over everyone who trusted him.”

I stared at the papers, the weight of them settling in my hands. It wasn’t just about the diner anymore. This was about the whole neighborhood, the people who’d been pushed out, the places that had been erased in the name of gentrification.

“Why now?” I asked.

She hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of an old photo—her and Daniel on their wedding day. She looked at it for a long moment before sliding it into a drawer.

“Because I’m done watching him destroy everything good,” she said.

That was all I needed to hear.

The Dinner

The investor showcase was exactly the kind of event Daniel lived for—chandeliers, champagne towers, and a room full of people with deep pockets. I worked it as a server, blending into the background with a tray of wine glasses.

Isabella stayed in the kitchen, calm and composed, but I saw the way her eyes darted to the clock.

At 8 p.m. sharp, the lights flickered, then went out completely. The room filled with gasps and murmurs, but Daniel’s booming voice cut through the confusion.

“Ladies and gentlemen, don’t panic! Just a minor technical issue.”

Then the projector flickered to life.

The video started slow—grainy footage of Daniel shaking hands with some guy in a cheap suit. Then the audio kicked in. Bribes. Fraud. Construction violations.

The murmurs turned into shouts. Investors pulled out their phones, snapping pictures and texting. Daniel’s face went pale, then red. He stood frozen, like he didn’t know whether to run or fight.

Isabella stepped out of the kitchen, her chef’s coat pristine. I joined her, standing at her side.

“You took everything from me,” I said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Now it’s your turn.”

The Long Fall

The fallout wasn’t fast. It wasn’t neat. And it sure as hell wasn’t clean. It was messy, like everything Daniel St. James touched.

The morning after the dinner, the news hit every screen in the city. Clips of Daniel shaking hands with men in cheap suits, audio of bribes spoken in backrooms, images of the wreckage he left in his wake. Investors scrambled to distance themselves, clawing at the edges of their reputations like rats on a sinking ship.

For days, I watched it all unravel. La Vistana emptied out, the usual sleek cars and designer shoes replaced by protest signs and reporters with cameras. The high-rise next to the diner lot went dark—its once-shining glass windows reflecting nothing but the emptiness inside.

Daniel didn’t go quietly. He stormed into the restaurant one night while Isabella and I were closing up, his face flushed with rage and humiliation.

“You think you’ve won?” he spat, his voice cracking like cheap glass. “You think this makes you better than me?”

I stepped in front of Isabella, my fists clenched, ready to end it right there. But she didn’t flinch.

“You did this to yourself, Daniel,” she said, her voice steady, cutting through his rage like a blade.

He lunged toward her, but I caught him by the arm. I don’t remember what I said to him, only the way his expression cracked—shock, anger, and finally, fear. That was the last time I saw him as a free man. He was arrested the next morning.

A New Beginning

They say Confucius, or someone equally full of pilfered wisdom, once said, “He who sets out on a mission of vengeance should first dig two graves.” Maybe that’s true for some. But here I am—still standing.

The diner is gone. My family’s dream went up in smoke with it. But dreams don’t need graves—they need kindling. They need fire— And there’s always a new dream ready to replace an old one.

Anyhow— It’s like I told you; when it comes to the taste of vengeance, it’s all about the seasoning.