Chapter 2 - The Blood in the Wine Cellar
By 2:00 AM, the Devo estate was under complete lockdown.
Steel security shutters had descended over every window, cutting off the estate from the affluent Chicago suburbs outside. Outside, heavy rainfall lashed against the glass, but inside the subterranean vaults beneath the wine cellar, the air was warm, dry, and suffocating.
Mara sat in a luxurious leather armchair inside Lucian’s private study adjacent to the vaults. She had been given a soft cashmere blanket, a hot cup of black tea, and a fresh change of clothes—a tailored silk blouse and wool trousers that actually fitted her properly, replacing the tight, degrading kitchen rags she had worn for years.
The door opened, and Owen Kade walked in, carrying a glass of ice water. He set it on the side table, his expression filled with a deep, quiet reverence.
“The doctor checked the rest of the kitchen prep,” Owen said softly, leaning against the edge of the mahogany desk. “Every other plate was clean. Roland targeted only Lucian’s serving. He knew Lucian always took his meal first.”
“Why would Roland do it?” Mara asked, taking a small sip of her tea. “He had prestige. He was paid hundreds of thousands of dollars a year. He was famous in the culinary world.”
“Greed,” Owen replied coldly. “Lucian’s rivals—the Moretti syndicate from New York—have been trying to break our foothold on the Midwest shipping docks for five years. Roland owed over two million dollars to illegal offshore bookmakers. The Morettis offered to wipe his debt and pay him five million more if Lucian dropped dead at his own dinner table.”
The heavy iron door at the end of the corridor groaned open, and Lucian Devo walked into the study.
He took off his charcoal jacket, rolling up his sleeves to reveal the dark, intricate tattoos covering his forearms—symbols of the ancient criminal brotherhood he led. He poured himself two fingers of scotch, sat in the chair opposite Mara, and looked at her for a long, quiet moment.
“Roland sang like a bird within ten minutes of being tied to a chair,” Lucian revealed, his voice devoid of emotion. “He gave us the names of three senior lieutenants within my own organization who assisted him in smuggling the poison onto the grounds.”
Lucian leaned forward, placing his hands on his knees.
“Mara, your grandmother taught you well. How did you recognize oleander so instantly?”
Mara looked down at her hands, her mind racing back to her childhood in rural Illinois.
“My grandmother ran an herbal apothecary,” Mara explained softly. “When I was eight years old, a stray dog ate leaves from an oleander bush near our fence. I watched it die in agony within an hour. My grandmother made me memorize every single poisonous plant in North America—their smell, their texture, the look of their veins under a microscope. She told me that poison is the weapon of a coward because it wears the mask of nourishment.”
Lucian’s dark eyes flashed with deep admiration. “A weapon of a coward... wise woman.”
He took a slow sip of his scotch.
“Effective immediately, Roland Price is no longer the Executive Chef of the Devo Estate. In fact, he will never work in a kitchen—or walk free—ever again.”
Lucian set his glass down on the desk with a heavy thud.
“Mara Bell, I am offering you the position of Head Executive Chef of this estate. Starting salary is half a million dollars a year, full estate security detail, and total control over every staff member, vendor, and menu that enters my home.”
Mara’s breath caught in her throat. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
“Mr. Devo... I don't have a formal degree from a culinary academy,” she stammered. “Roland kept my name off every menu. To the outside world, I’m just an uneducated prep assistant.”
Lucian smiled—a rare, genuine smile that transformed his harsh, ruthless face into something unexpectedly warm.
“The outside world doesn't know anything, Mara,” Lucian said softly. “You proved tonight that you possess something no diploma can buy: absolute loyalty, unmatched instinct, and an unbreakable spirit. Do you accept?”
Mara looked at Owen, who gave her an encouraging nod. She looked at her hands—hands that had scrubbed floors, chopped onions until her eyes bled, and endured three years of torment.
“On one condition, Mr. Devo,” Mara said, her voice steady.
“Name it.”
May you like
“I fire every single line cook and kitchen staff member who helped Roland bully me, and I hire my own team from scratch.”
Lucian laughed—a rich, booming sound that filled the study. “Consider it done.”
