Chapter 3 The Golden Cage

[Chloe]

The alarm screamed at 5:30 AM.

I slapped it. It fell off the nightstand. It hit the floor. It kept screaming.

"Okay," I groaned. "I am up. You win."

I sat up. The room was not my room. The walls were cream. The sheets were silk. The bed was big enough for five people.

I remembered. The vase. The risotto. The job.

I was the personal chef to the Mafia King.

"Weirdest resume update ever," I mumbled.

I climbed out of bed. The floor was cold. I found the bathroom. It had a shower with six nozzles.

"A car wash for humans."

I showered. I dressed. The uniform hung in the closet. Black pants. White chef coat.

I pulled the pants on. They were tight. I jumped to get the zipper up.

"Suck it in," I whispered. "Think thin thoughts. Celery. Water. Air."

The zipper closed. Barely.

I looked in the mirror. I looked professional. Except for the hair.

The curls were fighting a war with the hair tie. The curls were winning.

I grabbed my phone. No signal.

"Great. A dead zone."

I opened the door. The hallway was silent. I needed to find the kitchen.

I turned left. A long corridor. Paintings of dead old men stared at me.

I turned right. Another corridor. A statue of a naked guy with a spear.

"Nice butt," I whispered to the statue. "Call me."

I turned another corner. I was lost.

"Hello?" I called out. "Is there a map? A guide dog?"

A shadow moved at the end of the hall. A man in a black suit. He had an earpiece. He had a gun.

"Kitchen," he grunted. He pointed left.

"Thank you, Mr. Sunshine."

I hurried past him. I found the kitchen.

It was empty. It was clean. The oil stain was gone.

I looked at the clock. 05:55. Five minutes early.

"Okay. Coffee. The beast needs caffeine."

I found the espresso machine. It looked like a spaceship console. It had buttons for things I could not pronounce.

"Button one looks safe."

I pressed it. Steam hissed. Black liquid poured.

"Success."

I started on breakfast. Eggs. Bacon. Toast. Simple. Safe.

I hummed. I tapped my spoon on the counter.

I felt eyes on me.

I looked at the corner of the ceiling. A small black camera lens stared back.

He was watching.

I waved at the camera.

"Good morning, creeper," I mouthed.

[Lorenzo]

I sat in my security room. Wall-to-wall monitors showed every inch of the estate.

Screen 4 showed the kitchen.

She was there.

Chloe.

She wore a white chef coat. It was tight across her chest. She had flour on her nose.

She waved at the camera.

I frowned. Most people did not see the cameras. Or they pretended not to. She waved like a child.

"Creeper," she mouthed.

I narrowed my eyes.

"Disrespectful."

But I did not turn the screen off.

I watched her crack eggs. She did it with one hand. She was skilled.

Then she dropped a shell in the pan.

She fished it out with her finger. She licked her finger.

"Unsanitary," I muttered.

But I did not look away.

I had investigated her background last night. Chloe Rossi. 24 years old. Mother has diabetes. Father is gone. Debt collectors are chasing her.

She was desperate. Desperate people were useful. Desperate people were also easily bought by enemies.

I had to be sure.

I stood up. I adjusted my cuffs. I checked my gun.

I walked to the dining room.

She was already there. She was setting the table.

She looked up. She froze.

"Good morning, Sir."

"You are late."

She looked at the clock.

"It is 6:05. Breakfast is on the table."

"I expect coffee at 6:00 sharp."

"The machine and I had a disagreement," she said. "It hissed at me. We are working on our relationship."

She poured coffee into a cup. She placed it in front of me.

I looked at the black liquid.

"Taste it."

She sighed. It was a loud, dramatic sigh.

"It is coffee, Sir. Unless I milked a poisonous bean, you are safe."

"Taste it."

She picked up the cup. She took a sip.

"Hot!"

She put the cup down. She stuck her tongue out. She fanned it with her hand.

"Hot. Very hot. Burns."

"Is it poisoned?"

"Only with heat. And caffeine."

I took the cup. I drank. It was good. Strong.

"The eggs," I ordered.

She picked up a fork. She took a bite of the eggs on the platter. She chewed. She swallowed.

"Not dead," she reported.

I began to eat.

I looked at her and wondered if she had no fear for me.

She stood by the table. She shifted her weight. She played with the hem of her coat.

"Sit," I said.

"I am the help. Help stands."

"You make me nervous when you hover. You look like you are going to knock something over."

She pulled out a chair. She sat. The chair scraped loud against the floor.

"So," she said. "About the rules."

"I speak. You listen."

I pulled a document from my jacket pocket. I slid it across the table.

"The contract."

She picked it up. She read the first page. Her eyes widened.

"Confidentiality agreement. Non-disclosure. Liability waiver... bodily injury?"

She looked at me.

"Are you planning to injure my body?"

"It is a standard clause. In case you slip on oil again."

She read more.

"Clause 7. No visitors. No phone calls without supervision. No leaving the premises."

She put the paper down.

"This is not a job. This is kidnapping with benefits."

"The benefits are substantial. Look at the last page."

She flipped to the back. She saw the salary.

She choked on air.

"Is this... per year?"

"Per month."

Her jaw dropped. She looked at the number. She looked at me.

"I can pay off the loan shark," she whispered. "I can buy good insulin. The one with the pen."

She looked torn. The money was freedom. The rules were a cage.

"I need to call my mother," she said. "I need to tell her I got a job. She worries."

"You can call her. My head of security will monitor the call. You will say you are working for a private family in the countryside. You will not mention my name. You will not mention the location."

"She will think I am in a cult."

"Better a cult than a target."

I took a pen from my pocket. I placed it on the paper.

"Sign. Or leave."

She looked at the pen. She looked at the door.

She picked up the pen. She signed. Her signature was loopy and big. It took up two lines.

"Done," she said. "I sold my soul."

"You sold your cooking skills. Do not flatter yourself."

I took the paper. I stood up.

"Lunch at 13:00. Do not burn the kitchen down."

I walked away. I felt her eyes on my back.

"He has a nice walk," she mumbled. " strut. Like a peacock. A deadly peacock."

I hid a smirk.

A peacock.

No one had ever called me that. They called me King. They called me Devil.

Peacock was... new.

[Chloe]

He left. The room felt bigger without him.

I looked at the contract. I was rich. I was also a prisoner.

"Rich prisoner," I said. "Could be worse."

I cleaned the table. I went back to the kitchen. I prepped for lunch.

I needed fresh air. I needed to see the sun.

I walked to the back door. It opened to a garden. It was beautiful. Roses. Fountains. High stone walls.

I walked down the path. The sun felt good on my face.

I saw a gate at the end of the garden. It was iron. It looked heavy.

I walked toward it. Maybe I could just peek out. See the ocean.

I reached the gate. I touched the handle.

"Step away."

A voice boomed.

I jumped. A guard stepped out.

He was huge. He held a rifle across his chest.

"I was just looking," I said.

"Restricted area. No exit."

"I am not exiting. I am... inspecting the flowers."

"Step away, Miss."

He stepped closer. He did not smile.

"Okay. Sheesh. Relax, Rambo."

I backed up. My heart beat fast. The guns were real.

I turned around.

Lorenzo stood on the balcony above. He watched me. He held a tumbler of whiskey.

He did not look angry. He looked bored.

"Chloe!" he called out.

I looked up.

"Yes, Sir?"

"Get inside. You are disturbing the guards."

"I am just walking!"

"Walk inside. The kitchen floor needs scrubbing."

He turned his back on me. He walked into the house.

I stared at the empty balcony. He treated me like a stray dog he had let in.

"Jerk," I whispered.

I stomped back to the house. I went into the kitchen. I needed water. I needed to cool down.

The kitchen door was ajar. I heard voices in the hallway.

It was Lorenzo. He was talking to the Head of Security.

I stopped. I knew I should not listen. But my feet were glued to the floor.

"She tested the gate," the guard said. "Should we increase security on her?"

"No," Lorenzo said. His voice was cold. It sounded like ice cracking.

"She is not a flight risk. She is desperate for the money."

"She is a civilian, Boss. If Marco sees her..."

"Marco will not see her," Lorenzo interrupted. "That is why I hired her."

I held my breath. Why did he hire me? Because of the risotto?

"She is... invisible," Lorenzo said.

"Look at her. She is not a model. She is not a seductress. She is a chubby, clumsy cook."

My heart squeezed. It felt like a pinch.

"Marco likes beautiful things," Lorenzo continued. "He likes trophies. He will look at Chloe and see nothing. She is the perfect camouflage. She is safe because she is... undesirable."

Silence filled the hallway.

"Understood, Boss," the guard said.

"Keep her inside," Lorenzo said. "I do not want my camouflage wandering off."

Footsteps walked away.

I stood in the kitchen. The water glass shook in my hand.

I looked down at my body. My hips. My stomach.

I knew I wasn't a model. I knew I was messy.

But hearing him say it... hearing him call me "camouflage" and "undesirable"...

It stung. It stung worse than the broken vase.

I put the glass down. I looked at the security camera in the corner.

I did not wave this time.

"You are right," I whispered to the lens. "I am nobody."

I walked to the prep counter. I picked up a knife. I started to chop carrots for his lunch.

Chop. Chop. Chop.

I imagined the carrots were his expensive Italian shoes.

He thought I was safe. He thought I was weak.

He was wrong.

I wasn't just a cook. I was an Italian woman with a knife and a grudge.

"Eat your lunch, Peacock," I mumbled. "Hope you choke on it."

I wiped a stupid tear from my cheek.

I would do the job. I would take the money.

But the crush was gone.

Now, it was war.