Chapter 3 - The Cold Kitchen Table
Maya remained frozen on the floor, her breath hitching in her throat as she watched the dreaded owner of the estate kneel before her daughter.
"Victor," Gabriel said, standing up smoothly with the cheap plastic container balanced carefully in his palm.
"Yes, boss?" Victor answered, his voice uncharacteristically tentative.
"Have someone clean up this spill," Gabriel instructed, gesturing toward the shattered glass and blue detergent.
"Then bring Mrs. Collins and her children to the small family kitchen in the east wing."
Victor blinked, clearly surprised by the order. "The family kitchen, sir? Not the security interrogation room?"
"Did I stutter, Victor?" Gabriel replied, his tone turning razor-sharp.
"No, sir. Right away."
Ten minutes later, Maya sat stiffly on an upholstered oak chair in the sun-drenched private kitchen, clutching a paper napkin in her lap.
Leo sat beside her, his feet dangling off the chair, staring wide-eyed at the stainless steel appliances and the sprawling marble island.
Khloe was sitting on the opposite counter stool, happily swinging her legs while an elderly housekeeper named Maria placed a plate of freshly baked cookies and two glasses of cold milk in front of them.
Gabriel stood by the espresso machine, wearing only his white dress shirt and slacks, having discarded his jacket and weapon in his private study.
He took a porcelain plate from the cabinet, opened Khloe's crushed plastic container, and transferred the vanilla cupcake onto the fine china.
He set it in the middle of the table, right between the children.
"Eat," Gabriel said, nodding toward the plate.
"Khloe gave that to you, sir," Maya whispered, her hands still trembling against the table edge. "It was supposed to be her brother's treat for school."
"Then we will share it," Gabriel said calmly, pulling up a heavy wooden chair and sitting down at the head of the table.
He broke the cupcake cleanly in half, handing the piece with the bent sparkler to Leo, who took it with hesitant, reverent fingers.
Gabriel took a small bite of the blue frosting, the artificial vanilla flavor hitting his palate with surprising sweetness.
"Now, Mrs. Collins," Gabriel began, leaning back and resting his forearms against the table. "Tell me about Jimmy the Wrench."
Maya’s face drained of what little color it had regained.
"He's... he's a collector in Yonkers," she stammered, looking down at her stained apron. "My late husband, Richard, had debts. Gambling debts."
"How much?" Gabriel asked, his eyes locking onto hers with intense, analytical focus.
"Five thousand dollars," she whispered, tears threatening to spill once again. "Richard ran off two years ago, but Jimmy said the debt belonged to our family now."
"He came by my apartment on Tuesday. He kicked the front door until the frame cracked. He said if I didn't have the cash tonight, he would take Leo."
A terrible, suffocating chill swept through the warm kitchen.
Maria stopped washing dishes at the sink, her hands freezing beneath the running water.
Gabriel’s expression didn't change, but his dark eyes seemed to absorb all the light in the room, turning into bottomless pools of obsidian.
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"He threatened a six-year-old boy over five thousand dollars?" Gabriel asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Yes, sir," Maya sobbed quietly. "I've been working seventy hours a week trying to pay the interest, but Jimmy keeps adding fees. I can't escape him."
