Chapter7
ELENA
Vincenzo’s residence had never felt like a home.
Tonight, it didn’t even resemble one.
It was a fortress of glass and marble perched above the lake.
And tonight—it felt like a stage.
Set for my humiliation.
I stood in the far corner of the kitchen island, arms crossed so tightly my nails bit into the skin of my biceps.
The sting was grounding.
Necessary.
Anything to keep me from reacting.
The kitchen itself was a machine.
A living, breathing system of controlled chaos.
Seven women moved with precision around the space, dressed in crisp black uniforms that made them look less like chefs and more like a unit.
A team. Soldiers, even.
Knives flashed.
Pans hissed.
Heat radiated in waves from every station.
Voices stayed low—efficient, clipped, without unnecessary emotion.
“Pass the microplane.”
The command came from the lead chef—Chiara.
Mid-forties.
Iron-gray hair pulled back into a severe knot.
A face carved by discipline and long years of control.
She didn’t look up when she spoke.
A younger sous-chef slid the requested tool across the stainless steel surface without hesitation, without comment.
It stopped exactly where it needed to.
Everything here had purpose.
Tonight’s menu was... deliberate.
Slow-braised osso buco—veal shanks tender enough to fall apart after hours of simmering in white wine and stock.
