Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the KitchenThe next morning, the sun rose over Lake Michigan, casting a brilliant, blinding glare across the white limestone facade of the Vale estate.
Dominic sat at the head of the twenty-four-person dining table. A silver pot of black coffee sat before him, untouched. His mind was still trapped in the dim, flickering light of Bea’s diner.
At precisely 6:00 AM, the heavy oak service door swung open.
Emma entered, pushing her stainless-steel cleaning cart. She wore her gray uniform, the fabric pulling slightly across her hips, her dark hair pinned back into that immaculate, unyielding knot. She moved with the quiet efficiency of a ghost, unaware that the master of the house was tracking her every move with predatory intensity.
As she reached the sideboard to polish the silver tea service, Dominic stood up.
The scrape of his heavy mahogany chair against the imported marble echoed loudly through the cavernous room. Emma froze, turning her head respectfully, her eyes lowering to the floor.
"Good morning, Mr. Vale," she murmured, her voice steady, devoid of the servile panic other employees exhibited.
Dominic walked toward her, his polished leather shoes clicking sharply against the floor. He stopped just two feet away, towering over her. He could smell the faint scent of laundry detergent and rain on her uniform.
"You look tired, Emma," he said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that usually made grown men step backward.
Emma blinked, surprised by the direct address, but her posture remained straight. "I slept well enough, sir. Thank you."
"Did you?" Dominic tilted his head, his dark eyes boring into hers, searching for any flicker of deceit. "Because the security logs at the gate tell a different story. They say you leave at six in the evening and return past midnight. Eight months straight."
For a fraction of a second, the calm composure in Emma’s eyes fractured. A shadow of panic crossed her face, instantly masked by a disciplined wall of professional detachment.
"I have... personal matters to attend to, sir," she whispered.
"Personal matters," Dominic repeated, tasting the words like poison. "In a rundown diner on the South Side, giving away your hard-earned wages to desperate mechanics?"
May you like
Emma stepped back, her breath hitching. The color drained entirely from her face. "You... you had me followed?"
"I own this city, Emma," Dominic replied, stepping closer, closing the distance between them. "Nothing happens in Chicago without my knowledge. Especially inside my own gates. Explain to me why my maid—a woman paid a generous salary—is working herself into an early grave to play Robin Hood."
