Chapter 2 - Pancakes with the Don
Four minutes felt like four centuries. The grandfather clock in the foyer ticked with deafening cadence. Dante and Leo remained frozen at the door, wide-eyed, exchanging looks of pure disbelief that their boss—a man who had survived car bombs and federal indictments—was facing the wall like an unruly kindergartener.
"Time is up, mister," Lily announced, clapping her small hands together.
Vincent turned around slowly. He didn't look humiliated; his expression was completely unreadable, carved from cold stone. He adjusted his silk cuffs and walked back toward where I was still kneeling, frantically gathering lemons into my apron.
"Mr. Marquetti," I stammered, scrambling to my feet with my head bowed. "I'll pack our bags immediately. We will be off your property in twenty minutes."
"Did I tell you to pack, Elena?" Vincent asked, stepping into my personal space. The clean scent of sandalwood, cedar, and expensive espresso rolled off him.
"No, sir, but—"
"Pick up the lemons," he commanded softly, then glanced down at Lily. "And make breakfast. Three plates."
My heart leaped into my throat. "Three plates, sir?"
"You heard the warden," Vincent said, a ghost of an amused smirk flickering at the edge of his lips before disappearing entirely. "Skipping breakfast is against house regulations."
Ten minutes later, the most surreal scene in Chicago history unfolded in the chef's kitchen. Vincent sat at the polished granite breakfast island, his massive frame dwarfing the barstool. Sitting directly to his left was Lily, perched on two stacked telephone directories, her legs swinging back and forth.
I set down a platter of golden buttermilk pancakes, fresh strawberries, and scrambled eggs, my hands trembling so hard the porcelain rattled.
Lily inspected Vincent's plate with a critical eye, then pointed at his hands resting on the counter. "Did you wash?"
Vincent sighed, a deep, weary sound. He pushed back his stool, walked over to the stainless-steel sink, turned the water on, and pumped lemon-scented soap into his scarred palms. He scrubbed them with deliberate care, dried them with a linen towel, and returned to his seat.
"Acceptable?" Vincent asked dryly.
May you like
Lily beamed, revealing two missing baby teeth. "Very good, Mr. Vincent. Now you get syrup."
I stood by the stove, clutching a spatula like a weapon of defense, watching the man who controlled half the politicians in the state allow an eight-pound toddler to drown his gourmet meal in maple syrup. For the first time in six weeks of working in this house of shadows, I realized Vincent Marquetti was not just an iron-fisted phantom. Beneath the armor of absolute control lay a man carrying a heavy, silent loneliness.
