Chapter 3 - Shadows in the Kitchen
The Moretti household operated on clockwork, but clockwork required oil, and the oil in Gabriel’s house was discretion. Down in the massive, commercial-grade kitchen, where stainless steel counters reflected the glow of recessed ceiling lights, the evening shift was winding down.
Mrs. Higgins, the head cook who had served the family for twenty-two years, stood over a simmering pot of chicken broth. She was a woman of rigid standards, sharp elbows, and an encyclopedic knowledge of every dietary preference, allergy, and grievance of the Moretti bloodline. She viewed new staff with the deep suspicion of a medieval castle guard inspecting travelers at the drawbridge.
Emma stood at the prep island, chopping carrots with a chef’s knife that moved with rhythmic, professional precision.
"You're cutting them too small," Mrs. Higgins said without turning around.
"Mr. Moretti prefers his root vegetables diced finely in the broth so they absorb the herbs," Emma replied smoothly, not breaking her rhythm. "At least, that’s what the master inventory log and dietary notes from Dr. Aris indicate."
Mrs. Higgins stopped stirring. She turned slowly, her gray eyebrows drawing together. "You read the medical logs?"
"I read everything that helps me do my job without asking unnecessary questions," Emma said, setting the knife down and squaring the pile of carrots with the flat of her hand. "If I'm going to keep the kitchen running while you manage the dinner service for Mr. Moretti's business associates, I need to know what goes into the house."
Mrs. Higgins narrowed her eyes, studying Emma from her sensible black shoes up to the practical knot of dark blonde hair. Most young women who came to work in the mansion fell into two categories: those who were intimidated by the sheer wealth and prestige of the family, and those who spent half their time trying to catch Gabriel Moretti’s eye in the hallways. Emma fit neither mold. She moved through the high-ceilinged rooms with a quiet gravity, as if she carried an invisible weight of her own—something heavier than silver polish or nursery laundry.
"He's a hard man," Mrs. Higgins said quietly, lowering the heat under the broth. "Mr. Moretti. People see the cars, the security, the suits. They don't see what the cold does to a person when they lose the only thing that kept their heart beating."
"I didn't come here to see the man," Emma said, wiping her hands on a clean linen towel. "I came here to keep the children's rooms clean and their world steady."
"Good," Mrs. Higgins muttered, though the stiffness in her shoulders eased slightly. "Because in this house, walls have ears, and lately, they have lenses too."
Upstairs in his study, Gabriel didn't need ears on the walls. He had the monitors.
The camera in the kitchen had no audio recording enabled—privacy regulations for staff quarters—but the visual feed was crystal clear. Gabriel watched Emma on his screen. He watched her wash her hands, dry them, and then walk over to the pantry to check the inventory labels. Her movements were efficient, unhurried, grounded.
There was something about her posture that reminded him of a soldier standing at ease, or perhaps someone who had spent years guarding a secret. Gabriel knew that look well; he saw it every time he looked in the mirror.
His phone buzzed on the mahogany desk. It was an encrypted line.
"Boss," came the deep, gravelly voice of Vince, his head of security. "We ran the background check on the new maid again. Just to be thorough after that incident with the shipping dock broker last month."
"And?" Gabriel asked, his eyes remaining fixed on the kitchen monitor where Emma was now lifting a heavy sack of flour with a straight back and proper form.
"Clean," Vince said. "Former preschool teacher in Queens. Left her job six months ago to care for her mother, who passed away at St. Jude's hospice. Bank accounts match her salary history. No police record, no connections to the Maroni syndicate, no ties to any political rivals. She's a ghost, boss. A ghost with an employment history."
Gabriel tapped his fingers against the desk. "People with clean records are sometimes the ones hiding the deepest scars."
"True," Vince grunted. "Want me to put a tail on her during her days off?"
"No," Gabriel said instantly, surprising even himself. "Leave her be. Just... keep the interior logs secure. I want to know if anyone contacts her from outside."
"Will do."
May you like
Gabriel hung up. He looked back at the screen. Emma had left the kitchen and was now walking down the east corridor toward the nursery. Her steps were even and silent.
Gabriel leaned back in his leather chair, the glow of the monitor casting a pale blue light across his sharp jawline. He had installed the cameras to watch over his daughters. But as the hours ticked past, he found himself watching Emma instead—not out of suspicion, but because in a house governed by fear and cold steel, she was the only one who seemed entirely unafraid.
