Chapter 2 - The Silver Bowl of Rebellion
The butler’s pantry smelled of melting wax, expensive lilies, and cold oysters.
Vanessa had vanished upstairs to touch up her crimson lipstick before the first course was served.
I went straight to the silver vault behind the wine cellar.
On the highest shelf sat the heavy sterling tureen commissioned in Milan in 1912.
It was engraved with the Moretti family crest: a wolf curled around a branch of olive leaves.
It had not been used since Elena’s wake.
I took down the tureen, ignoring the sharp ache in my shoulders, and set it on the marble counter.
Maria stood by the pantry door, clutching her battered handbag against her chest like a shield.
“Emma, please,” she pleaded, her voice trembling.
“You have a mother in the hospital ward.”
“You have a little brother who needs books for university.”
“If she throws you out into the street without a reference, you will starve.”
I didn't answer.
I took the heavy steel ladle from the rack and plunged it into the warm, rich red sauce.
The scent rose up in a glorious, fragrant cloud of garlic, sweet basil, and simmered pork bone marrow.
It smelled of Sunday mornings.
It smelled of laundry drying on lines in back alleys and old Italian records playing on phonographs.
It smelled like everything Vanessa Bellini was trying to murder with her cold French foams.
I ladled the thick red gravy into the polished Milanese silver.
I filled it to the brim, adding four massive, hand-rolled meatballs that glistened with braised fat.
“Emma Sullivan,” a voice hissed from the archway.
I didn’t need to look up to know who it was.
Vanessa stood framed in the doorway, her crimson gown glowing against the white wainscoting.
Her eyes were wild with rage.
“What do you think you are doing with the family silver?”
“Setting the dinner table, ma’am,” I said, wiping a stray drop of sauce from the silver rim.
“I told you that slop was to be dumped in the alley!”
“Mr. Moretti gave explicit orders yesterday afternoon.”
“He requested Sunday gravy on his table.”
Vanessa closed the distance between us in three sharp strides.
She grabbed my wrist, digging her sharp acrylic nails deep into my skin until I felt blood rise.
“Let go of me, Mrs. Bellini,” I said, meeting her eyes.
“You listen to me, you worthless little charity case,” she whispered, her teeth bared.
“I know your mother owes twelve thousand dollars to the municipal clinic.”
“I know your brother’s scholarship depends on the Moretti Foundation grant.”
“If you take one single step through those swinging doors, I will make sure your family is evicted by sunrise.”
My blood ran icy cold.
She had done her research.
She had pulled my employment file from the estate office to use as a leash.
I looked at her perfectly painted face, at the cold emptiness behind her mascara.
Then I looked past her shoulder.
Maria was standing in the shadows of the dry storage room, crying silently into a paper napkin.
Thirty years of loyalty.
Thirty years of tending to dying parents, bandaging wounded foot soldiers, and feeding an orphaned boy.
And here she was, being kicked into the Chicago sleet like stray garbage.
If I backed down now, I would keep my miserable paycheck.
I would keep my warm cot on the third floor of the servants' quarters.
And I would become just another coward who watched a family’s heart get carved out with a silver spoon.
“I work for Luca Moretti,” I said clearly.
“Not for you.”
I pulled my wrist violently from her grip.
Vanessa gasped, stumbling back half a step on her heels.
“You are done,” she snarled, her chest heaving against her red bodice.
“You are completely done in this city.”
I didn’t reply.
I picked up the heavy silver tureen, feeling the heat radiate through the metal into my palms.
I turned to Maria.
“Walk behind me,” I said.
Maria shook her head, terrified.
“Emma, no—”
“Walk behind me, Maria.”
“He needs to see you.”
I pushed through the double swinging doors that separated the service labyrinth from the formal estate.
The contrast was sickening.
The grand dining hall was a cavern of warm gold and crystal chandeliers.
Thirty-six guests were seated along the forty-foot mahogany table.
There were city aldermen in tailored suits.
There were high-ranking captains from the South Side crews, their thick necks straining against white collars.
There was Marco Bellini, sitting near the head of the table, laughing loudly as he drank vintage Barolo.
At the very head of the table sat Luca Moretti.
He looked magnificent and utterly miserable.
His black bespoke tuxedo made him look like an executioner attending his own trial.
His dark hair was brushed back from his scarred brow.
His jaw was set in that rigid, unyielding line that made grown mobsters look at their shoes.
In front of him sat a tiny white porcelain dish containing a single roasted squab breast drizzled with lavender foam.
He hadn’t touched a single bite.
His fingers were tapping a slow, rhythmic cadence against the stem of his wine glass.
Beside his chair sat an empty seat, adorned with white orchids, waiting for Vanessa.
Vanessa rushed past me through the side entrance, smoothing her gown, trying to regain her composure.
She slipped into the room with a brilliant, artificial smile, ready to take her seat beside the Don.
I didn’t hesitate.
I marched straight down the center of the Persian runner, my maid’s apron stark white against the dark wood.
Behind me, the soft, hesitant scuff of Maria’s orthopedic shoes echoed against the parquet floor.
The laughter at the table began to die down.
One by one, the captains noticed the parlor maid carrying an unapproved silver dish.
I reached the head of the table.
I set the heavy Milanese tureen down directly in front of Luca Moretti’s untouched French plate.
The lid gave a sharp, metallic clatter as I lifted it away.
The steam rose like an invocation.
It didn't smell like lavender.
It didn't smell like cold, pretentious foam.
It smelled of charred garlic, sweet stewed tomatoes, pork bone marrow, and fresh torn oregano.
The heavy, rustic aroma rolled across the centerpieces, drowning out the scent of the white orchids.
Luca’s hand stopped tapping.
His entire body locked into absolute stillness.
He closed his eyes for a full three seconds, drawing the steam deep into his lungs.
When he opened his eyes, they were pitch-black and burning with a terrifying intensity.
He looked at the rich red sauce.
He looked at the massive, irregular meatballs resting in the silver bowl.
Then he slowly turned his head toward the entrance.
Maria stood there in the archway, her cracked brown handbag clutched to her stomach.
Her blue dress was stained with red sauce.
Her flour-dusted sleeves caught the light of the hundred-thousand-dollar chandelier.
Luca pushed back his heavy mahogany armchair.
The legs screeched against the floorboards, cutting through the silence like a gun shot.
He stood up to his full six-foot-two height, towering over the frozen table.
He looked at Maria.
Then he looked at Vanessa.
May you like
His voice was quiet, deadly, and loud enough to freeze the blood in thirty-six veins.
“Why does my mother’s kitchen smell like this?”
