Chapter 2 - The Scent of Garlic and RegretThe silence in the kitchen was so absolute that the hum of the refrigerator sounded like a jet engine.
Victor Rinaldi stood frozen halfway across the tiled floor, his dark eyes locked on his youngest son. The hard, impenetrable armor that made him a legend in the underground world seemed to crack right down the middle, revealing a raw, bleeding vulnerability he usually kept hidden from the light of day.
“Tommy,” Victor murmured, his voice losing its gravelly edge, turning rough with a suppressed grief that had festered inside these walls for three long years.
He took another step forward, his hand extending toward the boy, but Tommy suddenly retreated, stepping back into the shadows of the pantry door. The brief moment of connection snapped, and the protective wall went right back up.
Ethan, recovering his bravado first, kicked a stray cereal box across the floor. “Don't care. We’re not eating whatever garbage she’s making. Order pizza!”
“Yeah, pizza!” Mason echoed, instantly pivoting back to rebellion.
Victor’s gaze snapped back to me, the brief glimpse of humanity vanishing behind the cold mask of the billionaire boss. He straightened his shoulders, clearing his throat. “You have sixty minutes left, Miss Bennett. If they aren't at this table eating, you know the terms.”
He turned on his heel and walked out of the kitchen, retreating down the dim hallway toward his private study, leaving me alone with four hostile boys and a pot of boiling water.
Most applicants would have packed their bags right then. Most people would have realized that a grieving family of elite criminals could not be managed with wooden spoons and sliced oranges.
But I didn't have the luxury of walking away. Thirty-six dollars in my bank account and two weeks until a custody hearing meant I had to conquer the Rinaldi household or lose my daughter forever.
I turned back to the stove.
“Alright,” I said loudly, not raising my voice in anger, but projecting the steady, no-nonsense tone I used when Lily refused to brush her teeth. “If we aren't ordering pizza, we are making pasta. And since I’m the one standing by the stove, you can either help me chop garlic, or you can sit on the floor and watch me do it badly.”
Ethan scoffed, leaning against the counter. “You don't know how to cook for real. Rich people hire chefs.”
“I’m not rich, Ethan,” I replied, tossing a handful of penne pasta into the boiling water with a satisfying splash. “I’m broke. And broke people know how to make garlic butter stretch for an army.”
Tommy peeked out from the pantry, his eyes tracking my movements. “My mom used butter and fresh thyme,” he whispered, so quietly I almost missed it.
I looked down at the small boy, offering a soft, genuine smile. “Then we’ll use butter and fresh thyme. Go check the herb garden by the back patio window. See if there’s any left alive out there in this rain.”
Tommy hesitated, looked at his brothers, and then scurried out the side door toward the patio.
Ethan rolled his eyes, but he didn't throw anything else. Mason looked down at his sticky hands, suddenly aware of how gross he felt.
For the next forty-five minutes, something miraculous happened in that kitchen. It wasn't polite, and it certainly wasn't quiet, but it was functional. By 7:45 p.m., the kitchen smelled heavenly—garlic, butter, parmesan cheese, and roasted tomatoes mingling together in a way that hadn't graced this mansion since Clara Rinaldi passed away.
When Victor walked back into the kitchen at exactly 7:55 p.m., he stopped dead in his tracks.
All four boys—even Ethan—were sitting upright in their chairs around the massive dining table. Plates of steaming pasta sat before them, alongside garlic bread and a bowl of sliced oranges. Tommy was quietly twirling noodles around his fork, while Mason was actually chewing with his mouth closed.
Victor looked from his sons to me. I was leaning against the far counter, wiping my hands on a dish towel, my hair slightly damp from the humidity of the cooking pots.
He checked his gold wristwatch.
7:58 p.m.
“Two minutes to spare,” Victor said quietly, his dark eyes searching my face for any sign of a trick.
“I’m an accountant by trade, Mr. Rinaldi,” I replied, tossing the towel onto the counter. “I understand deadlines better than most.”
Victor pulled out the head chair at the table, sitting down slowly. He picked up his fork, took a single bite of the pasta, and closed his eyes for a fraction of a second as the flavors hit his palate. It was a simple dish, born of poverty and resourcefulness, but it tasted like home.
When he opened his eyes, they were sharper than ever.
“You’re hired, Miss Bennett,” he said. “Effective immediately. Pack your bags; you’re moving into the west wing tonight.”
May you like
I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding since I crossed those iron gates in the storm. But as I looked around the table at the four broken boys and the haunted man at the head of it, a chilling realization settled over me.
Feeding them was the easy part. Surviving whatever war was coming for this family? That was going to require a miracle.
Related Stories
