Chapter 3 - The Forgotten Dinner
At six-thirty in the evening, Daario’s armored town car pulled through the heavy iron gates of his North Shore estate.
Senator Robert Campbell was riding beside him, discussing zoning permits for a new twenty-million-dollar cargo terminal along the Chicago River.
"I must say, Daario, your wife’s hospitality is legendary in Springfield," Senator Campbell said, adjusting his spectacles with a fond smile.
"My wife still talks about that rosemary roasted lamb Mrs. Rinaldi prepared during our winter retreat. Elena has an elegance that softens even the roughest political corners."
"She knows how to host," Daario replied, though an unsettling knot of anxiety tightened in his gut.
He hadn't received a single confirmation text from Elena all day, which was completely out of character.
When the two men stepped into the grand marble foyer, the house was dark, peaceful, and dead quiet.
There was no mouthwatering scent of roasting garlic or seasoned lamb drifting from the kitchen. There was no crackling fire in the double-height living room hearth, and no crystal decanters of single-malt scotch prepared on the sideboard.
"Elena?" Daario called out, his voice echoing awkwardly against the vaulted ceilings.
He walked into the sprawling kitchen and stopped dead in his tracks.
The stainless steel counters were spotless, cold, and bare. On the center island sat an unopened cardboard box of Chinese takeout and a short, handwritten note:
Sophia and I had an early dinner and went to the community ice rink for her figure skating practice.
The takeout menu for the local steakhouse is pinned to the refrigerator door if you and the Senator require dining services.
Elena.
Senator Campbell walked into the doorway, taking in the cold kitchen and the paper takeout boxes with raised eyebrows.
"It seems we caught your household on an off evening, Daario," Campbell chuckled politely, though his tone was distinctly stiff and uncomfortable.
"My apologies, Robert," Daario said, his face burning with deep, uncontrollable humiliation.
"Let me have my driver take us to the Chicago Club downtown. My private suite is always open."
"Actually, Daario, it’s quite late, and my flight to Washington leaves early tomorrow," the Senator said, checking his watch with a cool, detached expression.
"Let's reschedule the zoning discussion until your administrative affairs are a bit more... settled."
As the Senator’s car rolled back out through the iron gates, Daario stood alone in the cavernous, quiet kitchen.
May you like
He threw the cardboard takeout box into the trash can with a violent crash, his breathing heavy and ragged.
For the first time in fifteen years, he realized that the iron doors and armed sentries of his estate did not make a home; the warmth had come entirely from a woman he had treated like an invisible ghost.
