Chapter 6 - The Uninvited Guest
The Mercer Street project did not go unnoticed. One rainy Tuesday, while Maya was receiving a crate of cold-pressed oil from an Umbrian estate, a sleek black sedan pulled up behind the delivery van.
A man stepped out—older than Julian, with silvered hair combed straight back, wearing an expensive camel-hair coat. He carried a heavy gold-headed cane and walked with a deliberate, slow authority. Two younger men remained by the car doors, their hands tucked inside their jackets.
The older man pushed through the front door, his cane clicking sharply against the newly polished parquet floor.
"Julian," the man spoke, his voice carrying the deep timbre of old Milanese privilege. "They told me you were playing house in an alley."
Julian emerged from the dry storage room, carrying a sack of arborio rice. His face instantly hardened into the ruthless mask Maya had seen on their first night at L’Aube.
"Uncle Marco," Julian said, setting the sack down with a heavy thud. "You’re off your territory."
Marco surveyed the kitchen, his gaze lingering dismissively on Maya before landing back on his nephew. "Your father's associates are concerned. You sold the docks in Newark. You walked away from the distribution warehouse in Queens. Now I find you smelling of onions and wood smoke. What is this nonsense?"
"It’s an honest dining room," Julian said flatly. "And my business is my own."
Marco chuckled, tapping his cane against an empty brass stockpot. The clang echoed through the cavernous space. "Honest? There is no honest bread for a Moretti, Julian. You think cooking peasant soup washes away twenty years of collection fees and quiet burials? Your father would put a bullet in your knee for this foolishness."
Maya stepped forward, wiping her hands on her kitchen towel. "The pot you're hitting was forged in 1912, sir. If you dent it, you'll pay for the restoration."
Marco turned his cold gaze onto her. "And who is this little sparrow? The new mistress?"
"She is Chef Vance," Julian intervened, his voice dropping an octave, deadly quiet. "And if you speak to her again without lowering your eyes, Marco, I will forget that you are my father's brother."
May you like
The air turned razor-sharp. Marco stared into Julian’s eyes for a long moment, measuring the lethal resolve behind the chef’s apron. Finally, the older man smiled thinly and turned toward the door.
"You can play with your mother's ghosts, Julian," Marco sneered from the doorway. "Just remember: ghosts don't protect you when the street comes to collect."
