Chapter 1 - The Bargain in the Snow
Vincent’s hand remained buried inside his tailored charcoal overcoat, his fingers wrapped around the unmistakable silhouette of a concealed firearm. The Philadelphia wind howled down Broad Street, rattling the Plexiglas walls of the bus shelter, sending swirls of dry, bitter snow across the tips of Roman Duca’s handmade Italian boots.
I didn’t blink. When you have spent four months watching your entire life get stripped away—first your savings to medical bills, then your mother to cancer, then your apartment to an eviction notice—you run out of room for polite fear. Survival has a way of turning terror into cold, clear arithmetic.
Roman didn’t draw a weapon. Instead, his dark eyes narrowed, sweeping over my threadbare red coat, my cracked boots, and finally locking onto my face with a terrifying, assessing stillness.
“What do my men do, Miss Sullivan?” Roman’s voice was remarkably calm, carrying the smooth cadence of old money and quiet violence. “They solve logistical problems. They protect our family’s assets. And occasionally, they make choices that would cause a normal citizen to lose their sleep.”
“They’re mob enforcers,” I said plainly.
Vincent stiffened. “Boss, let’s go. This is a waste of time. She’s a street stray with an attitude. I can have an agency send five vetted culinary professionals to the estate by midnight.”
Roman raised one gloved finger. Vincent fell instantly silent. The obedience was absolute, chilling in its precision.
“Agency cooks run away when a kitchen window shatters, Vincent,” Roman murmured, never breaking eye contact with me. “Agency cooks call their cousins to brag about what they saw in the basement. Miss Sullivan didn’t flinch when you touched your holster. She looked at my money and saw a trap, and she looked at my face and saw a man who could end her life.” He took one step closer. “Tell me, Maggie. Does the nature of my business disgust you enough to freeze to death on this bench?”
Beside me, Walter let out a ragged, rattling cough that ended in a sharp, pained wheeze. The sound cut right through the standoff. Walter was seventy-three. His lips were tinged with a faint, dangerous shade of blue. If he stayed out here tonight, the morgue van would be picking him up before sunrise.
I made my calculation.
“I have two conditions,” I said.
Vincent let out a short, incredulous laugh. “You’re negotiating? From a bus shelter?”
“Shut up, Vincent,” Roman commanded, his gaze unwavering. “Name them, Miss Sullivan.”
“First: Walter comes with me,” I pointed down at the shivering old man. “He doesn’t sleep on the street tonight. You have hotels, you have properties, you have drivers. He gets a warm room, medical attention for that chest rattle, and three hot meals a day until he’s back on his feet. Paid for by you, deducted from whatever salary you were going to give me.”
Roman’s brow arched slightly. “And the second?”
“I run the kitchen my way,” I said, lifting my chin despite the violent shivering racking my frame. “I don’t care if your men carry machine guns or bury bodies in the woods. When they step through my kitchen doors, they wash their hands, they take off their hats, and they treat my food with respect. If they want a war zone, they can stay outside. Inside my kitchen, I am the only authority.”
Silence descended over the snow-covered street corner. The headlights of passing cars cast long, eerie shadows across the pavement. Vincent looked like he was waiting for the word to drag me into an alley.
Then, the corner of Roman Duca’s mouth twitched upward.
“Walter,” Roman said, turning his gaze to the shivering veteran. “Can you walk to the car, or do I need Vincent to carry you?”
Walter blinked through rheumy, disbelieving eyes. “I… I can walk, sir.”
Roman turned back to me, extending a single, black-leather-gloved hand.
May you like
“Deal, Miss Sullivan. Let’s see if your cooking is as lethal as your tongue.”
***