Page 21 of Cage the Storm
“He’s expecting interference,” I say finally. “If we move to shut him down too soon, it’ll confirm his suspicions. He’ll push harder.”
Mateo doesn’t argue since he understands the long game.
“Then what?” he asks instead.
I grip the edge of the desk, staring past him. D’Angelo wants answers. That means I need to take control. “He wants to play?” I speak. “Fine.” I turn back to Mateo, cold settling in my chest.
“If he wants the truth, he’ll get only what I allow him to see. Send him the pictures tonight.”
Mateo inclines his head, but his stance stays rigid. He respects my decisions, but his instincts tell him to do more. He’s always been one step ahead of threats, always prepared to end problems before they take root. That’s his job.
“That doesn’t mean I want him moving unchecked,” I continue, returning my gaze to him. “Watch him. If he presses too hard and starts asking the wrong people the right questions, I want to know before he finds anything.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
I trust him. If D’Angelo retaliates, he won’t wait for my order; he’ll make sure he disappears, permanently.
D’Angelo’s digging, but he’s chasing ghosts. He knows something happened in that warehouse, and soon he’ll have proof—his son Dante, his brother Vinnie, his nephew Aldo, and two guards, all gone. The photos will confirm what he fears: it was a hit. Clean. Ruthless. Mafia-made.
But not traceable.
Not to me.
He’ll grieve. He’ll rage. He’ll demand retribution. But he won’t know who to blame since he has so many enemies. That’s the point. I’ll decide what he knows, when he knows it, and how much.
Luna may be his daughter, but she’s my wife. His reach ends where mine begins. And if he keeps pressing, he’ll learn the hard way that grief isn’t the only thing waiting for him in the dark.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
LUNA
When I walk in,the kitchen’s buzzing with activity. In the center of it all stands Chef Laurent, his back straight and his attention unwavering as he studies a set of handwritten notes.
“Madame,” he says without looking up, his tone respectful.
“I thought I’d take Nicolai’s suggestion,” I reply, stepping further into the room. “He seems to think I should be more involved in what comes out of this kitchen. Let’s go over the menu.”
That gets his attention. Laurent turns, his eyes scrutinizing me with barely concealed skepticism. He’s a man who takes pride in his work, and the idea of someone, even the boss’s wife, interfering with his domain is unwanted. But if Nico wants me to do this, I won’t back down. This is about more than food; it’s about taking control, about proving that I’m more than just Nico’s wife in this household.
“Of course,” Laurent says after a beat, gesturing toward a stack of printed menus on the counter. “We’ve been working on a seasonal choice. Something fresh.”
I step closer to review the pages. The dishes are exquisite, each meticulously planned, but the idea of just going with theflow grates on me. This isn’t just about what we eat; it’s about creating something different.
“Let’s adjust a few things,” I say, tapping the list with my finger. “I want more emphasis on variety, taking the ordinary to extraordinary without compromising some of Nicolai’s favorite dishes.”
Laurent gives me a look but knows better than to question me. He’ll need to accept that this isn’t just his kitchen anymore. I can’t disobey my husband and stand idly by. Nico would be furious if someone else dictated my place in this house. I was given a new role, and I plan on doing it to the best of my ability.
He pulls up the order sheets, laying them out on the counter. The names of suppliers, quantities, and costs are neatly documented and very efficient. He explains the process, and I listen, absorbing the details on how this kitchen works. This is about understanding how something as simple as a delivery schedule plays into the larger picture. I’m surprised he’s so patient and kind, which instantly puts me at ease.
I know the moment Nico walks in when the air thickens. His presence is known before he’s spoken, and the kitchen’s hum seems to stall for a second. Laurent straightens slightly, he’s not nervous but alert, and I don’t bother turning around. Yet, I can feel his eyes on me, assessing me.
“Getting a lesson in logistics?” Nico’s voice comes off as standoffish.
I finally meet his gaze. “Just making sure I understand the flow,” I reply, tapping the papers in front of me. “You wanted me more hands-on, so here I am.” His eyes snap to Laurent, then back to me. But he knows I won’t back down.
Then Nico’s gaze flicks toward the papers on the counter. “We should reassess some of these suppliers,” he says, leaving no room for argument. “Some of them have been comfortable for far too long. It’s time to see if there’s a better possibility.”
Laurent stiffens, his professionalism intact, but his pride unmistakable. “With all due respect, sir,” he replies, “we’ve vetted these suppliers for quality and reliability. Any changes risk compromising what trust we’ve built here.”
