Chapter 2 - The Rules of the Kitchen
The grand kitchen of the Castellano estate was a masterpiece of stainless steel, black granite, and professional-grade appliances that could easily feed a small army. Yet, despite its staggering cost, it felt less like a kitchen and more like a sterile laboratory where joy had gone to die.
By 6:00 a.m. the following morning, Mara was already standing at the central island, wearing a fresh apron and staring at a complex, commercial espresso machine that looked like it required an engineering degree from MIT to operate properly.
Evelyn Price stood five feet away, her arms folded tightly across her charcoal jacket, watching Mara with the eyes of a hawk waiting for a field mouse to make a fatal mistake.
“Mr. Castellano drinks black coffee at precisely 6:30 every morning,” Evelyn stated coldly, her voice echoing against the subway tile. “No sugar. No milk. No artificial flavorings. It must be served at sixty-five degrees Celsius. If it is sixty-four or sixty-six, he will send it back.”
“Sixty-five degrees. Got it,” Mara murmured, adjusting her apron strings. She felt the heavy weight of Evelyn’s hostility, but after dealing with angry city health inspectors and demanding wedding caterers back at the bakery, Evelyn Price was barely a blip on her radar. “What about breakfast?”
“Chef Henri prepares his meals,” Evelyn snapped. “Your job is strictly the coffee, the dog, and staying out of sight unless called upon. Do not speak to him unless spoken to. Do not linger. And above all, do not attempt another comedic spectacle like yesterday.”
“It wasn't a spectacle, Evelyn,” Mara replied mildly, checking the pressure gauge on the coffee machine. “It was an athletic recovery.”
Evelyn let out a sharp, dismissive breath. “You think you are clever, Ms. O’Leary. You think because you made him laugh once, you are special. Let me educate you. Dominic Castellano hasn't cared about a single human soul since his brother Julian was killed nine years ago. He keeps people here because they are useful. The second you become a nuisance, you will be thrown out those gates without a second thought.”
Before Mara could respond, the kitchen door swung open, and the golden retriever came bounding in, his tail wagging like a metronome. Following closely behind was Leo, a burly security officer with a scarred jaw who looked entirely ridiculous holding a pink nylon leash.
“Morning, Mara,” Leo said, offering a tired smile. “The monster finished his morning walk. He only tried to eat two pinecones and a garden hose.”
“Thanks, Leo,” Mara smiled, taking the leash. She bent down, ignoring her aching knees, and rubbed the dog behind his floppy ears. “Good morning, Barnaby. Did you terrorize the security detail?”
“Barnaby?” Evelyn raised an eyebrow in distaste. “The dog does not have a name. It was brought here as a gift from a business associate in Milan. Mr. Castellano has not decided whether to keep it.”
“Well, he looks like a Barnaby,” Mara said firmly, rising back up. She looked at the clock on the wall. 6:22 a.m. “Time to make the coffee.”
She focused her energy on the espresso machine. Baking was an exact science—flour, water, yeast, temperature, and timing required deep precision and respect. Coffee was no different. She ground the beans to a fine consistency, tamped the grounds with calibrated pressure, and pulled a double shot that produced a rich, dark golden crema on top. She checked the temperature with a digital probe. Exactly sixty-five degrees.
Setting the delicate porcelain cup onto a silver tray alongside a tiny pitcher of iced water, Mara picked up the tray and turned toward the door.
“Remember the rules,” Evelyn warned behind her.
Mara walked down the quiet, cavernous hallway of the main floor. The estate was filled with priceless art—nineteenth-century oil paintings, marble busts, and heavy tapestries—but it felt empty, hollowed out by a profound, lingering grief.
She reached the mahogany doors of Dominic’s office. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, she knocked three times.
“Enter,” a deep voice called out.
Mara pushed the heavy door open with her elbow.
Dominic was sitting behind his desk, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, and no tie. The morning sun streamed through the arched windows behind him, illuminating the sharp lines of his face and the faint shadow of dark stubble along his jawline. He was reading a thick stack of printed financial ledgers, a sleek fountain pen held between his long fingers.
Barnaby immediately trotted past Mara, heading straight for the space beneath Dominic’s desk as if he had lived there his entire life.
Mara walked forward with measured steps, setting the silver tray down on the marble coaster near the edge of his desk.
“Good morning, Mr. Castellano,” she said in a warm, even tone. “Black coffee. Sixty-five degrees.”
Dominic didn't look up from his papers immediately. He reached out, his long fingers wrapping around the handle of the porcelain cup. He lifted it to his lips, took a slow sip, and paused.
He set the cup down and looked up at her. His dark eyes were intense, analyzing her face with terrifying focus.
“This isn't the coffee Henri brews,” Dominic noted quietly.
Mara held her breath for a second. “No, sir. Chef Henri uses a dark French roast that’s slightly over-extracted, which leaves a bitter aftertaste on the back of the tongue. I used a medium-roast Ethiopian bean from the pantry. It has notes of blueberry and dark chocolate. It doesn't need sugar to mask the bitterness.”
Dominic stared at her for three long seconds. The silence hung heavy in the air.
“You know about coffee?” he asked.
“I ran a bakery for ten years, Mr. Castellano,” Mara said, her chin lifting slightly. “If you don't know your coffee, your customers go to the chain store down the street. Good coffee is the difference between a good morning and a mediocre one.”
Dominic looked back down at the cup, taking another sip. A subtle shift occurred around his eyes—the microscopic relaxing of a man who realized he was drinking something prepared with genuine skill rather than cold obligation.
“The temperature is correct,” he murmured.
“Sixty-five degrees,” she confirmed. “Evelyn made sure I understood the penalty for sixty-six.”
Dominic glanced at the doorway, a faint sneer touching his lips. “Evelyn enjoys rules because she lacks imagination.”
He picked up his pen again, returning to his ledgers. Mara took that as her cue to exit, turning to walk toward the door.
“Ms. O’Leary,” his voice stopped her just as her hand touched the brass handle.
She turned back. “Yes, sir?”
“What is the dog’s name?”
Mara hesitated, wondering if she was about to get reprimanded for naming property. “Barnaby, sir.”
May you like
Dominic looked down at the golden pup sleeping soundly on his Italian shoes.
“Barnaby,” Dominic repeated, testing the word on his tongue. “It suits him. You may go.”
