Chapter 2 - The Taste of Stolen Butter
The swinging double doors of the kitchen squeaked against their brass hinges every time the wind hit the exterior exhaust vents.
Frank remained standing near the arched hallway with his back pressed against the wood paneling, his arms crossed over his chest.
The other associate, a younger man with slicked-back hair and a sharp jawline named Leo, leaned against the brass register.
Neither of them spoke.
They watched the kitchen doors with the uneasy vigilance of guards waiting for an explosion.
Chloe pulled the cashmere coat tighter around her chin, burying her nose into the expensive dark collar.
"Mommy, this coat smells like wood and old books," she whispered, her eyes wide as she traced the stitching.
"Hush, sweetie, don't play with the lining," I whispered back, my heart still racing against my ribs.
My apron was still wet with bleach water, cold and stiff against my worn cotton trousers.
Every instinct I had developed over six years of scraping by told me this situation was wrong.
Men like James Moretti did not cook for cleaning ladies.
Men like James Moretti did not walk into closed restaurants to feed stray children unless there was a price attached.
In my neighborhood in East Boston, favors from powerful men were simply debts you hadn't been billed for yet.
The sound of an iron skillet striking a cast-iron burner rang out sharply from the commercial range inside.
A minute later, the rich aroma of shallots sizzling in clarified butter drifted into the dining room.
My stomach let out a loud hollow growl that made my face burn with fresh embarrassment.
Chloe looked up at me and smiled faintly.
"Your tummy is roaring like a lion, Mommy."
"I know, bug, it's fine," I said, smoothing down her messy blonde curls.
The kitchen doors swung outward with a sharp shove of a black leather boot.
James Moretti walked out carrying a heavy porcelain platter in both hands, an embroidered dish towel draped over his forearm.
His white linen shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, his sleeves rolled securely past his muscular forearms.
There was a faint dusting of white flour on the dark fabric of his trousers near his right hip.
He carried the platter to our booth with an effortless balance that looked completely unnatural for a dock boss.
He set the dish down in the center of the dark oak table without making a sound.
On the porcelain rested a thick ribeye steak, browned to a crisp mahogany crust and glistening with thyme butter.
Beside it lay a towering mound of golden mashed potatoes whipped with heavy cream and roasted garlic.
Steam rose from the meat in thick fragrant curls that immediately filled the chilly space between us.
He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out two sets of polished silver cutlery wrapped in linen napkins.
He laid one before Chloe and the other directly in front of me.
"Eat," he said simply.
Chloe looked at the towering mountain of food with her mouth slightly open, her hands still tucked in the coat sleeves.
"Is this for both of us?" she asked hesitantly.
"It is for whoever is hungry at this table," James replied, pulling out the opposing wooden chair and sitting down.
He did not pick up a fork.
He rested his forearms on the polished timber, clasping his large hands together loosely.
There was an old jagged scar running across the knuckles of his left index finger down into his wrist.
Chloe looked at me for permission, her hazel eyes pleading with an urgency that broke my heart into pieces.
"Go ahead, Chloe," I said softly, my voice trembling slightly.
She took the heavy silver fork with both hands and pushed it into the mashed potatoes.
She blew on the steaming mound twice before sliding it into her mouth.
Her eyes rolled shut, and a tiny sigh escaped her lips that sounded almost like a sob.
"Mommy, it's so warm," she whispered, her cheeks flushing with immediate heat.
"It's real cream, baby," I answered, my eyes burning with unshed tears.
"Don't cry over potatoes, Bennett," James said quietly from across the table.
His tone wasn't mocking; it was flat and steady, devoid of the theatrical cruelty the rumors attributed to him.
"I'm not crying, Mr. Moretti," I lied, quickly blinking away the moisture.
"Pick up your fork, Grace."
"Sir, I have to finish wiping the bar counters before Marcus comes back with the morning delivery crew."
"Marcus Vance isn't coming back here tonight," James said, his voice entirely devoid of doubt.
"And if he did, he would ask my permission before stepping on these floorboards."
He pushed the second plate closer to my hands.
"The steak will get tough if the tallow cools. Eat your dinner."
I picked up the knife and fork with fingers that still shook from adrenaline.
I cut a small piece from the edge of the beef and put it in my mouth.
The meat was so tender it dissolved instantly against my tongue, rich with salt, rendered fat, and fresh herbs.
It was the first piece of fresh red meat I had eaten in nearly nine months.
I had survived on instant noodles, stale bread from the corner bodega, and whatever canned beans were on discount.
A heavy lump formed in my throat as I chewed, making it difficult to swallow without choking.
"Thank you," I managed to whisper, keeping my eyes fixed on the white porcelain plate.
"Don't thank me for food that was already sitting in my walk-in cooler," James said evenly.
"You bought the restaurant?" I asked, looking up at him across the table.
"Three days ago," he replied, watching Chloe carefully guide another slice of meat onto her fork.
"The previous owner had gambling markers floating in three different basements across South Boston."
"I acquired the property deeds to settle his arrears."
"So Marcus Vance works for you now?"
"Marcus Vance answers to my office now," James corrected smoothly.
"Which means you answer to my office as well."
A sudden spike of panic flared in my chest, cutting through the warmth of the hot meal.
If James Moretti owned the restaurant, then the entire structure of my miserable employment had shifted under my feet.
"I didn't steal anything from the kitchen, Mr. Moretti," I said quickly, setting my fork down on the linen.
"I only brought Chloe because the snow was so bad and my apartment lock is broken from the outside."
"I was going to have her out of here by five in the morning before the delivery trucks arrived."
James leaned back against the wooden chair, his gaze drifting from my face to the girl.
Chloe was eating with the focused ravenous silence common to children who didn't know when their next hot plate would come.
"How long have you worked here, Grace?" he asked.
"Seven months."
"What does Vance pay you?"
"Twelve dollars an hour, off the books for the night cleanup, fifteen on the registered weekend shifts."
Frank made a low scuffing noise from the archway, shifting his heavy boots on the floor.
James raised his left hand an inch, and the scarred man fell silent instantly.
"The legal minimum in this city is fifteen fifty," James observed, his eyes cold and dark.
"Marcus said because I have limited background references, he had to deduct insurance fees from my envelope," I explained.
"Did he?" James asked, a dangerous stillness creeping into his posture.
"Yes, sir. He said if I complained to the labor board, he would report me to child services for negligence."
Chloe stopped chewing for a second, looking up between us with wide, worried eyes.
"Did I do something wrong, Mommy?" she asked softly.
"No, sweetheart, you're doing great, finish your potatoes," I told her, forcing a smile onto my face.
James looked at the little girl, then reached over with his thumb and gently wiped a speck of sauce from her chin.
His touch was remarkably gentle for a man whose hands had reportedly broken half the dockworker unions in the harbor.
"You didn't do anything wrong, Chloe," James said to her, his voice softening once more.
"Your mother works very hard."
"I know," Chloe said proudly, her mouth full again.
"She cleans the big pots so we can buy medicine when my chest hurts."
James turned his head slowly to look at me, his eyes boring into mine with relentless clarity.
"What kind of medicine?" he asked quietly.
I clutched my linen napkin in my lap, feeling the cold weight of reality pressing back down on my shoulders.
"She has childhood asthma," I said in a near whisper.
"The inhaler is eighty-five dollars without prescription coverage."
"I fell behind on the pharmacy balance two weeks ago."
James did not say another word.
He sat in silence, watching the little girl scrape the last remnants of whipped potatoes from the wide platter.
May you like
Outside, the storm shrieked against the harbor wall, throwing sheets of gray sleet against the panes.
Inside the warm dining room, the silence between us felt heavier than any threat Marcus Vance had ever uttered.
