Chapter 6 - Blood on the Linoleum
I didn’t scream. Panic is a luxury for people who have someone coming to save them.
I threw the vacuum-sealed package into the commercial trash bin, grabbed my heaviest carbon-steel cleaver, and marched straight toward the library doors.
Two armed guards stepped into my path outside the library corridor, crossing their assault rifles. “Kitchen staff stays in the service wing, Maggie. Boss’s orders.”
“Move those rifles before I carve both of you into soup meat,” I said, my voice dead and cold.
They stared at me, then at the twelve-inch meat cleaver in my right hand. Before they could make a decision, the heavy oak doors swung open and Vincent stepped out, his eyes blazing with fury.
“What the hell is going on out here, Maggie?” Vincent hissed. “There are six family bosses in that room! Are you insane?”
I grabbed Vincent by the lapels of his thousand-dollar suit, hauled his head down to my level, and shoved the piece of raw beef fat right beneath his nose.
“Smell it, you idiot,” I whispered savagely.
Vincent pulled back, his eyes narrowing. He sniffed once. His pupils dilated until his eyes were almost entirely black.
“Cyanide,” he breathed.
“Three crates of prime strip steaks delivered twenty minutes ago from your ‘Manhattan office,’” I told him. “Who signed for the delivery?”
Vincent didn’t answer. He turned on his heel, kicked the library door wide open, and walked straight up to Roman Duca, leaning down to whisper three words into his ear.
Roman didn’t flinch. He didn’t drop his crystal glass of scotch. He simply set the glass down with a soft, deliberate *clink* on the mahogany table, looked around at the assembled mafia bosses, and stood up.
“Gentlemen,” Roman said, his voice terrifyingly smooth. “Dinner will be slightly delayed. It appears we have a quality control issue in the shipping department.”
Three minutes later, the delivery driver—who was having a cigarette by the loading dock while waiting for his invoice clearance—was slammed face-first onto my stainless-steel prep table by Dante and Bruno.
The driver was screaming, spitting blood as Dante twisted his arm behind his back until the bone popped.
“Who paid you?” Roman asked, walking into the kitchen with his hands clasped behind his back. He didn’t look angry; he looked like a surgeon preparing to excise a tumor.
“I don't know nothing!” the driver shrieked. “A guy at the warehouse gave me five grand to switch the boxes in Trenton! That’s all! I swear on my mother’s life!”
Roman sighed softly, then looked over at me. I was standing by the range, my arms crossed, watching the scene unfold without flinching.
“Miss Sullivan,” Roman said quietly. “Please step out of the kitchen for five minutes. This will be messy.”
“No,” I said firmly.
Every man in the room looked at me in disbelief.
“This is my kitchen,” I said, pointing the tip of my ladle at the bleeding driver. “You want to spill blood, you take him out to the gravel driveway or the garage. You don't taint my prep stations, you don't ruin my sanitization, and you don't make a mess where people eat. Get him out of here.”
Bruno looked at Dante. Dante looked at Vincent.
Then, for the first time since I arrived at Ravenwood, Roman Duca laughed aloud. A genuine, rich, booming laugh that echoed off the stainless-steel hoods.
“You heard the lady,” Roman waved his hand. “Take this garbage to the barn. We wouldn’t want to ruin Miss Sullivan’s floor.”
As they dragged the screaming driver out the back doors, Roman walked over to my prep station. He picked up an uncut carrot from my cutting board, examined it, and looked at me with an intensity that made the room feel twenty degrees hotter.
“You saved my life tonight, Maggie,” he said softly. “You saved all of us.”
May you like
“I saved my kitchen,” I corrected him, though my hands were trembling slightly beneath my apron. “Now get out of here. I have to make thirty portions of handmade lasagna from scratch in under an hour because your meat order was poisoned, and I refuse to serve a late dinner.”
***