Chapter 5 - Salt in the Bread
Morning arrived with the color of lead and the smell of impending sleet.
In the vast, stainless-steel industrial kitchen of the manor, the air was warm with the smell of sizzling butter and vanilla. Lucy sat perched on a heavy wooden barstool, her legs kicking rhythmically against the rung, holding Captain Carrot tightly under her arm. The rabbit’s fresh, black-thread scar ran across its chest like a crude badge of honor.
"Make it have four wheels, Mommy," Lucy instructed with utter solemnity. "Not three. Cars do not drive on three wheels."
"I am trying, sweetie," Nora said, wiping a strand of brown hair from her forehead with the back of her flour-dusted wrist. "Pancake batter isn't clay. It spreads out."
"Bishop wants wheels too," Lucy informed her, pointing a small finger downward.
On the polished slate floor beside the stool, Bishop lay perfectly flat, his chin resting between his giant front paws, his golden eyes tracking every microscopic drop of batter that sizzled on the griddle. He didn't whine. He didn't beg. He simply existed as an eighty-pound wall of canine muscle, positioned exactly between Lucy and the kitchen's exterior service door.
The heavy swing door pushed open.
Mrs. Gable, the cook, didn't enter. Vincent did.
He was dressed for the city: a bespoke charcoal three-piece suit, an Italian wool coat draped over his forearm, and black leather driving gloves tucked into his pocket. He brought the scent of crisp winter morning and high-octane fuel with him.
Nora froze, the spatula suspended mid-air over the skillet.
Lucy, however, didn't even pause. "You are late," she told the head of the Chicago docks.
Vincent stopped two paces into the kitchen. He glanced down at the dog, then up at the little girl sitting on his barstool. "Late for what?"
"Breakfast," Lucy said plainly. "Mommy is making cars. But one looks like a potato."
Nora felt her cheeks flame. "Lucy, hush. Mr. Calder is busy—"
"A potato?" Vincent walked over to the stove. He didn't look at Nora directly, but she felt the sudden, electric change in the room's pressure the moment he stood beside her. He looked down into the pan. "She’s right. That’s an Idaho russet if I’ve ever seen one."
"It's a Volkswagen Beetle," Nora muttered defensively, flipping the lopsided pancake with more force than strictly necessary.
"If you say so," Vincent said, a trace of amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small, foil-wrapped parcel, and set it on the counter next to Lucy's plate.
Lucy eyed it suspiciously. "What is that?"
"Blueberry muffin," Vincent replied. "From the bakery on Grand Avenue. The one with the real sugar on top."
"Did Bishop have one?"
"Dogs don't eat muffins. It rots their teeth."
Lucy considered this, then nodded in approval. "Good. Then it is mine." She immediately abandoned Captain Carrot to tear into the foil.
Nora lowered the heat under the griddle, keeping her voice low so it wouldn't carry across the counter. "You shouldn't spoil her."
"I do what I want in my own house, Nora," Vincent murmured, his eyes shifting to her face. They lingered there, dropping to the pulse fluttering visibly in the side of her neck, before rising to meet her gaze. "Did you sleep?"
"No," she said honestly.
"Good. Fear keeps people alert." He checked the platinum watch on his wrist. "Frank has four men on the perimeter. The front gates are locked on manual override. Nobody comes in, nobody leaves. If a grocery van shows up, Mason checks the manifest himself."
Nora swallowed hard. "And you? When are you going to Fulton Market?"
"Ten minutes."
"Vincent..." The name slipped past her lips before she could stop it, too familiar, too raw. She bit her lip, looking down at the scarred rabbit sitting on the granite. "What happens if Valenti doesn't want to talk?"
Vincent’s expression turned utterly cold, the human warmth that had surfaced for Lucy vanishing like water on a hot iron.
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"Valenti always wants to talk," Vincent said, pulling on one black leather glove and flexing his fingers. "He just needs to be reminded what happens when he talks too much."
***
