Chapter 13 - The Iron Kitchen
The next morning, the kitchen became a command bunker.
While thirty loaves of sourdough bread rose in the proofing cabinets and twenty gallons of chicken stock simmered on the commercial ranges, Bruno stood behind me at the dry-storage prep counter, showing me how to clear a chamber, drop a magazine, and acquire a sight picture.
“It’s like slicing onions, Ma,” Bruno grunted, his massive hands surprisingly gentle as he corrected my grip on the 9mm pistol. “Smooth, deliberate motions. Don't jerk the trigger. Squeeze it like you’re testing an avocado for ripeness.”
*Click.*
“Better,” Bruno nodded. “Again.”
*Click.*
“Good. Now holster it inside your apron pocket. Nobody draws on you unless they’re ready to meet God.”
The training was interrupted by the screech of tires outside the kitchen loading dock.
Dante and two scouts burst through the rear doors, half-carrying a bleeding man dressed in a shredded postal uniform.
“Ambush at the distribution hub!” Dante yelled, coughing through a mouthful of blood. “Ruslan’s men hit our food warehouse! They burned two delivery trucks and seized the supply lines coming in from the rail terminal! They’re cutting off our supplies, Maggie! No flour, no meat, no fuel shipments are getting past the turnpike!”
The men gathered in the kitchen, their faces pale with shock. A fortress cannot survive without food. If Ruslan could starve Ravenwood out, the syndicate would collapse from the inside within two weeks.
Roman arrived a second later, flanked by Vincent. His jaw was set in stone.
“How much do we have in storage, Maggie?” Roman demanded, looking around the pantry.
I didn't panic. I pulled out my inventory clipboard, my eyes scanning the columns of numbers.
“We have five hundred pounds of dried beans and legumes,” I answered instantly. “Eight hundred pounds of hard winter wheat in the cool cellar. Two hundred jars of preserved tomatoes, sixty slabs of salt pork, and four commercial freezers filled with whole hogs and beef sides. If we ration properly and bake daily, I can feed fifty men for two months without a single delivery truck crossing the gates.”
Dante looked at me like I had just performed a miracle. “You’re kidding.”
“I ran an industrial cafeteria through three corporate strikes and a supply chain collapse, Dante,” I said, turning to the stove and grabbing my apron. “You boys worry about the bullets. Leave the fuel to me. But if Ruslan thinks he can starve this house, he’s going to find out what happens when you corner a woman with a fully stocked pantry.”
Roman stepped forward, placing a hand on my shoulder. His touch sent a jolt of electricity straight down my spine.
“We don't wait two months,” Roman said, his voice echoing with absolute lethality. “We strike tonight. We take back our rail terminal, we butcher Ruslan’s frontline enforcers, and we end this siege before the snow melts.”
He looked around the room at his assembled soldiers.
May you like
“Eat a full meal, gentlemen. Miss Sullivan has prepared your feast. Make sure Ruslan’s men swallow lead for dessert.”
***