I sneak inside, and move closer to thehome office door. It’s cracked open about two inches. Just enough to hear.
“What fake name did he use to register this time?” Marco is saying. His voice is tight. Controlled anger.
A pause. He’s on speaker with someone.
“James Mitchell,” a woman responds. I recognize the voice of Gianna, his COO. “Paid cash. Ordered the tasting menu.”
“And what exactly did he say when he pulled out the recorder?” Marco presses.
Gianna is quiet for a moment. Then: “He asked the sommelier about ‘whether standards have changed since Chef Fiore stepped back.’”
“Stepped back?” Marco’s voice becomes tighter. “I’m there three nights a week.”
I watch through the crack as Marco paces. He’s in a black henley again because apparently that’s his entire wardrobe. The fabric stretches across his shoulders and I have to physically stop myself from remembering what those shoulders look like without the shirt.
Focus, Jess.
Professional eavesdropping only.
“He also called our seafood distributor yesterday,” Gianna continues. “Asked about delivery schedules. Whether we’ve been ordering less. Whether quality requests have changed.”
“Christ.” Marco stops pacing. Presses his palms flat on his desk. “He’s going around the new house policies entirely.”
And then I see it happen.
The three-count breath.
In through the nose. Hold. Out through the mouth. Hold.
Repeated twice more.
The same technique I taught Ben. The same one I use when my anxiety is trying to convince me the world is ending.
He’s using my breathing method.
In a board call.
To calmhimselfdown.
Oh.
“We’re not engaging,” he says after the breath. His voice is steadier now. “Same as before: written replies only. No off-record conversations. Staff who get approached refer to press and walk away.”
The call continues but I’m not really hearing it anymore.
Because Marco Fiore, billionaire restaurateur, control freak extraordinaire, just used a coping mechanism I taught his five-year-old daughter.
And it worked.
I back away from the door before I get caught lurking. Return to the mudroom. Work on the last of my tidying-up.
My phone buzzes.
Marco.
Thank you.
I stare at those two words for approximately seventeen years.
