Chapter 2 - The Plate On The White Marble Counter
The uniformed man didn't move for three agonizing seconds, his boots planted firmly on the threshold, his hand hovering near his belt before he caught the absolute deadliness in Moretti’s stillness. With a sharp nod of compliance, he backed out of the kitchen, pulling the white door shut behind him with a soft, muffled click. The sudden silence that followed felt heavier than before, pressing down on my shoulders like lead.
Moretti didn't watch him leave. Instead, he reached past me, his long fingers turning off the faucet with a sharp twist of the metal handle. The sudden absence of running water left a ringing in my ears.
Without a word, he reached over to the side counter where a warm skillet rested next to a cutting board filled with colorful chopped vegetables and thin strips of meat. I had prepped them hours ago for the midnight catering tray before it was canceled. With a smooth, practiced motion, he used a wooden spoon to stir the contents of the skillet, letting the rich aroma of garlic and seared beef rise into the cool air of the kitchen.
"Eat," Moretti said, sliding a clean white ceramic plate loaded with the hot food across the white marble countertop directly in front of me.
I looked down at the plate hesitantly, my hands still damp and pruned from the dishwater. My stomach gave a hollow, painful twist, but pride and fear fought a silent war inside my chest. I hadn't eaten since yesterday morning, but taking charity—or worse, accepting special attention from the master of the house—felt like crossing a line I could never step back across.
"I'm not hungry, sir," I lied softly, keeping my palms flat against the edge of the counter.
"I didn't ask if you were hungry," Moretti said, leaning his hip against the marble island, his dark eyes studying my face with an unsettling intensity. "I told you to eat. And in case there was any misunderstanding earlier: nobody hurts anyone in my house."
The words hung in the air, simple, flat, and absolute. They weren't spoken with theatrical menace; they were stated like a law of physics. I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat making it difficult to breathe. My fingers reached out slowly, trembling as I picked up the fork resting beside the plate. The heat from the food radiated against my knuckles, chasing away the chill that had settled deep into my bones while I scrubbed the dishes.
"Thank you, Mr. Moretti," I murmured, taking a small, cautious bite. The flavor was rich and grounding, pulling me back into the reality of the room.
May you like
"Finish it," he instructed quietly, turning toward the espresso machine at the far end of the counter. "Then go down to the medical wing on the lower level. Have Dr. Vance look at that arm before your shift starts in the morning. That's not an option."
###
