Chapter 5 - THE POISONED INGREDIENT
Three days later, the tension inside the Moretti estate had shifted from cautious suspicion to a strange, electric domesticity.
The guards no longer watched Grace with guarded paranoia; they greeted her with genuine warmth, occasionally dropping off specialty coffee beans or fresh bakery orders from the local markets just to see her smile. And Titan? The massive mastiff practically lived outside the kitchen doors, acting as her personal, highly intimidating bodyguard whenever she walked the estate grounds.
Yet, in the underworld, calm was merely the prelude to a storm.
It was a crisp Thursday afternoon. The kitchen was filled with the rich, earthy aroma of slow-simmering beef bourguignon and freshly baked sourdough. Grace stood at the island, chopping fresh rosemary, humming softly to herself.
Marco and Leo were prepping vegetable trays near the walk-in refrigerator.
The service door swung open, and Victor Reyes walked in, holding a small, clear plastic evidence bag containing a white, powdery substance. His face was carved from granite.
"Chef Walker," Victor said, his voice cutting through the kitchen's warm atmosphere like a scalpel.
Grace paused her knife, looking up. "Victor? Is everything alright?"
"We intercepted a delivery truck coming through the outer security checkpoint twenty minutes ago," Victor said, walking over to the island and placing the plastic bag down on the wooden surface. "A courier claiming to be from our regular organic dairy supplier. He had proper invoices, matching manifest numbers, and a forged authorization signature."
Grace stared at the bag. Inside was fine, pharmaceutical-grade white powder.
"What is this?" she asked, her heart skipping a beat.
"Tetrodotoxin," Victor replied coldly, his eyes narrowing. "A potent, fast-acting neurotoxin derived from pufferfish. Tasteless, odorless, and completely undetectable once mixed into a rich, slow-simmering sauce."
Marco dropped a handful of carrots into the sink with a loud clatter. Leo turned pale, stepping backward until his back hit the stainless-steel refrigerator.
"Someone... someone put poison in our delivery?" Grace whispered, horror washing over her.
"Not just anyone," Victor said, his voice grim. "The courier cracked under interrogation fifteen minutes ago. He was paid twenty thousand dollars by Salvatore Marcone’s syndicate. The target wasn't the capos. The target was the private dinner party Mr. Moretti is hosting tonight for the regional banking board. And specifically... the main course you were scheduled to prepare."
Grace’s hands began to tremble slightly. She looked down at the simmering pot of beef bourguignon on the massive stove. It was half-finished, rich and bubbling, resting right where she had left it ten minutes ago while she stepped into the pantry.
"Did anyone touch the pot while I was in the pantry?" Grace demanded, spinning around to face the sous-chefs.
"N-no, Chef!" Marco stammered, raising his hands in sheer panic. "We were right here chopping carrots the whole time! Nobody came near the stove!"
"Are you sure?" Victor pressed, his hand resting near his concealed sidearm.
"Wait," Leo piped up, his eyes widening in sudden realization. "Except... except for delivery boy Joe. He dropped off the extra crates of wine through the service vestibule about fifteen minutes ago. He said he had to use the restroom and walked past the stove to get to the back hall."
Victor’s eyes flashed with lethal fury. "Where is that courier now?"
"In the basement holding cells," Victor growled. "I'm going to see Mr. Moretti."
Before Victor could turn toward the door, Grace reached out, grabbing his sleeve. Her hazel eyes were no longer terrified; they were burning with fierce, protective determination.
"Victor," Grace said firmly. "Don't tell Luca yet."
Victor stared at her in disbelief. "Chef Walker, an assassination attempt was just made against the master of this estate—and against you. Mr. Moretti has a right to know immediately."
"If you tell him now, while he's reviewing the dock shipments with the capos, he’ll go to war," Grace argued, her voice unwavering. "Marcone wants a bloodbath. He wants Luca to overreact, break the treaty, and plunge the city into a full-scale gang war that will draw every federal agency down on our heads."
"So what do you suggest we do?" Victor demanded. "Just ignore an attempt on your life?"
May you like
Grace turned back toward the simmering pot of beef bourguignon. A slow, razor-sharp smile—one that looked terrifyingly similar to Luca’s cold calculating grin—spread across her face.
"We don't ignore it," Grace whispered, picking up a clean wooden spoon. "We serve it."
