Chapter 3 - The Cold Kitchen
By ten in the morning, the kitchen felt less like a culinary sanctuary and more like a high-security checkpoint.
Two large guards, Paul and Frank, stood near the back door with arms crossed, watching Clare inspect every crate of produce brought in from the delivery van. Outside, the rain had settled into a dreary, steady drizzle that turned the gravel drive into grey mud.
Clare lifted a wooden crate of fresh winter squash, setting it onto the stainless-steel prep table. Her mind was racing.
Two years.
That was what Dante had said. The wiretap had been operating for two years.
She began running through the household records in her head. Two years ago was when Dante had restructured his operations following the death of his old business partner, Sal Genovese. It was the same year Clare had been hired as head housekeeper after her husband’s fatal car accident left her penniless and desperate for a secure place to raise Lily.
If the bugging system was two years old, the person who installed it had complete access to the mansion’s structural blueprints. They knew about the abandoned service passages that dated back to the 1920s—passages that weren't included in the modern architectural layouts stored in the estate’s digital drives.
Nero suddenly padded into the kitchen. The giant Cane Corso walked slowly, his head low, his dark eyes scanning the room. He walked straight past the two guards—who carefully moved out of his path—and rested his heavy chin on the edge of Clare’s apron.
“Hey, big boy,” Clare murmured, dropping her voice so the guards wouldn't pay attention. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, crisp apple slice she had saved from the morning prep.
Nero took it gently from her fingers, his jaw making a soft crunching sound as he swallowed it whole. He gave a soft whimper, nudging her hand with his wet nose.
Clare stroked his broad, muscular head, feeling the thick ridge of bone behind his ears. As her fingers moved down his thick neck, she froze.
Her thumb had caught on something hard tucked beneath his heavy leather collar.
It wasn't his brass identification tag. It was small, rectangular, and made of smooth, hard plastic.
Clare kept her face completely neutral. She didn't pull her hand away, nor did she look down. She continued stroking Nero’s neck, using her fingers to feel the object. It was taped securely to the inner lining of the leather collar with dark electrical tape—a micro-tracker, small enough to record location data or pick up ambient audio whenever the dog wandered into Dante’s private chambers.
Her heart hit her ribs like a sledgehammer.
Nero was Dante’s constant companion. He had free reign of the entire estate, including the private meeting rooms where even Marco Bellini was sometimes asked to wait outside. Whoever had placed the bug on Nero didn't need to enter Dante’s study to listen to his conversations; they just needed to feed the dog a treat and let him sleep on the rug.
Who touched Nero on a regular basis?
Only four people in the house had the dog’s complete trust: Dante, Clare, Lily... and Marco, who often threw tennis balls for Nero in the courtyard.
Clare felt a cold drop of sweat trace down her back. If she revealed the tracker right now to the two guards standing near the pantry, news would reach Marco within thirty seconds. If Marco was the one who put it there, he would ensure she never had the chance to show Dante.
She shifted her body slightly, using her apron to block the guards' line of sight. With a swift, practiced motion of her fingernails, she peeled the edge of the electrical tape away from the inside of the collar and slipped the small plastic rectangle into the hidden pocket of her skirt.
Nero gave a low sigh and turned toward the kitchen hearth, settling his massive body onto the warm stone tiles.
Clare turned back to the crate of squash, her hands shaking so violently she had to grip the wooden edge to steady herself.
Just then, the kitchen door swung open.
Marco Bellini stepped into the room, holding a folder under his arm. His eyes immediately swept the space, landing on Clare, then dropping to Nero sleeping by the fire.
“How are we doing in here?” Marco asked, his voice dripping with an artificial friendliness that sent a shiver down Clare’s spine.
“We’re almost finished with the inventory, Mr. Bellini,” Clare said, forcing her voice to remain flat and professional. She picked up a paring knife and began peeling a potato, keeping her eyes fixed on her work.
Marco walked slowly toward the table. He stopped right beside her, leaning his elbow against the stainless steel. “You look nervous, Clare.”
“There are armed men in my kitchen,” she replied without looking up. “I think I have a right to be uncomfortable.”
Marco chuckled, a dry, grating sound. “Fair enough. But you know, you did a great thing last night. The boss was very impressed. He doesn't usually pay attention to the staff, but today... well, today he’s asking about you.”
Clare kept her eyes on the potato skin curling beneath her blade. “I just want the house back to normal so I can do my job.”
“Normal is dead, Clare,” Marco murmured, stepping an inch closer. “In our line of work, once a hole appears in the wall, you don't patch it. You tear the whole structure down to find out who made it.”
He reached out and picked up an apple from the wooden crate, turning it over in his large, scarred hand. “Make sure Dante gets his lunch in his study at twelve. And bring it up yourself. He asked for you specifically.”
Marco dropped the apple back into the crate with a dull thud, turned, and walked out of the kitchen, taking the two guards with him.
The moment the heavy door clicked shut, Clare leaned against the prep table, gasping for air. She reached into her skirt pocket, her fingertips brushing the tiny plastic bug.
May you like
Dante hadn't asked for her to bring his lunch.
Marco was testing her. He wanted to see where she went, who she talked to, and whether she would break under the pressure of holding a secret.
