Chapter 5 - Dawn in the Lion’s Den
The clock on the kitchen wall ticked loudly, marking the arrival of five o'clock in the morning on my final day at Falcone Manor. Forty-eight hours. Just two more hours of dusting, scrubbing, and maintaining my stubborn composure, and I would be free. My stomach let out a loud, pathetic growl of hunger. The massive, industrial-sized kitchen was fully stocked with enough gourmet ingredients to feed a small army, but true to the cold, sterile nature of the estate, nobody ever cooked. The gleaming marble countertops were pristine, the stainless-steel ovens looked like they had never been turned on, and the massive pantry was filled with imported caviar, expensive truffles, and vintage wines—none of which could cure an empty stomach at dawn.
I sighed, rolling up my sleeves. If these billionaire mobsters didn't know how to feed themselves properly, it was a minor miracle they hadn't starved to death years ago.
I decided to take matters into my own hands. Pushing past the expensive imported delicacies, I dug into the back pantry shelves and pulled out the basic, honest staples of my childhood: a bag of russet potatoes, thick-cut smoked bacon, a dozen farm-fresh eggs, sweet cream butter, unbleached flour, and a carton of tangy buttermilk.
Within minutes, the cavernous, cold kitchen came alive with the symphony of domestic warmth. Thick slices of bacon hissed and crackled across the heavy cast-iron skillet, filling the air with a rich, smoky aroma that chased away the oppressive gloom of the mansion. I cubed the potatoes, tossing them in rendered bacon fat until they developed a golden, crispy crust, while working a mountain of flour and chilled butter into fluffy, towering biscuits that rose high inside the roaring oven.
As the buttermilk biscuits browned to a perfect amber hue and the rich scent of home-cooked comfort food drifted down the high-ceilinged corridors, Falcone Manor transformed completely. For the first time since I stepped foot inside those iron gates, the enormous stone fortress stopped smelling like a bunker of crime and violence, and finally smelled like somebody’s actual home.
I was busy plating the food when I heard the distinct sound of footsteps approaching down the stone hallway. Not one set, but three.
I paused, wiping my hands on a dish towel, and turned around toward the kitchen entrance. Roman, Declan, and Gabriel stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the doorway, dressed casually in dark t-shirts and lounging pants, looking entirely out of place in their own kitchen.
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They weren't holding guns. They weren't glaring. They weren't trying to intimidate me.
Instead, all three of the most dangerous men in the city stood frozen in absolute, unadulterated shock, staring at the steaming plates of bacon, eggs, crispy potatoes, and golden biscuits sitting on the island counter as if I had just conjured up magic out of thin air.
