Chapter 2 - The Lion’s Den
The elevator ride to the penthouse felt like a descent into the underworld, even though I was moving upward.
The air grew colder with every floor.
When the doors opened, I was met by two men in charcoal suits.
Their eyes were soulless.
Their hands were tucked neatly away, likely resting on the grips of suppressed pistols.
"The Chef is indisposed," I said before they could speak.
"I am his replacement for the evening."
They didn't move. They looked at the plate covered by a silver cloche.
One of them pulled out a chemical sensor.
He moved it over the steam escaping the lid.
The light stayed green. No common toxins.
"He's waiting," the guard said, stepping aside.
The dining room was a glass box suspended over the city.
Rain lashed against the windows, blurring the lights of the harbor below.
At the end of a long, obsidian table sat Gabriel Moretti.
He didn't look like a monster.
He looked like a fallen angel.
His dark hair was pushed back, revealing a face of sharp angles and cold, piercing eyes.
He didn't look up from the tablet in his hand.
"Sit it down," he said. His voice was a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated in my chest.
"And leave."
I didn't leave.
I walked to the table and set the plate down with a soft clink.
I reached for the silver handle of the cloche.
"Mr. Moretti," I said.
He froze.
He finally looked up, his eyes narrowing as they landed on me.
He didn't look at the food. He looked at my face.
"You aren't Duvall."
"Duvall is no longer capable of serving you."
"And you are?"
He leaned back, his powerful frame filling the chair.
"You're the girl who brings the water. The one who never looks me in the eye."
"Tonight, I'm the person who cooked your dinner," I said, lifting the lid.
The aroma of the spicy, rich braise exploded into the room.
Gabriel Moretti recoiled as if I had slapped him.
He stared at the dark sauce, the vibrant saffron, the steam rising in defiant curls.
"What is this?" he whispered.
The air in the room turned electric.
"This is not what I ordered."
"I know."
"I ordered white fish. Steamed. No salt."
"You ordered a slow death by boredom," I said, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"I brought you something worth staying alive for."
He stood up slowly.
He was much taller than he looked while sitting.
He walked around the table until he was inches from me.
I could smell his cologne—sandalwood and expensive tobacco.
"You realize," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "that if I find one ingredient in here that I didn't authorize, you won't leave this building?"
"Then don't find an ingredient," I challenged. "Find a flavor."
He looked at the plate, then at the silver fork beside it.
He hadn't enjoyed a meal in fourteen years.
He picked up the fork.
The tension was so thick I could barely breathe.
He took a small piece of the veal, ensuring it was coated in the dark, spicy reduction.
He put it in his mouth.
He closed his eyes.
The silence lasted an eternity.
I watched his throat as he swallowed.
I watched the way his jaw tensioned, then slowly, miraculously, relaxed.
A small, sharp exhale escaped his nose.
"Who are you?" he asked, his eyes still closed.
"Elara," I whispered.
He opened his eyes. They weren't cold anymore.
They were predatory, but in a different way.
"Elara," he repeated.
"Do you know why I don't eat food like this?"
"Because of your mother," I said.
He reached out, his gloved hand catching my chin, forcing me to look up at him.
"No," he said. "Because I was afraid I would find something I liked more than power."
He took another bite, more aggressive this time.
"The broth Duvall made," he said, his voice hardening. "Where is it?"
"In a secure container. I believe it was poisoned."
Gabriel didn't look surprised.
He looked disgusted.
"Then you saved my life."
"I just wanted to cook something real," I said.
He let go of my chin and stepped back, looking out at the rain.
"Fletcher!" he roared.
The manager scurried into the room, sweating.
"Yes, Mr. Moretti?"
"Clear out her locker," Gabriel said, never taking his eyes off the harbor.
Fletcher looked at me with a smirk.
"Of course, sir. She's fired immediately."
"No," Gabriel said, turning back to me with a look of terrifying possession.
"She's not fired. She's moving. Pack her things and bring them to the penthouse."
My heart stopped.
"What?"
Gabriel walked back to the table and sat down, picking up his fork again.
"The kitchen at Maison Noir is no longer safe for you, Elara. And I find I have developed a sudden, violent craving for your cooking."
He looked me in the eyes, a dark smirk playing on his lips.
"Before midnight strikes, the world will know you belong to me. You are my personal chef. My ward. My property."
"I am not property," I snapped.
He paused, a piece of meat halfway to his mouth.
May you like
"We'll see," he said. "Now, stay. I want to watch you while I eat."
***
