Chapter 3 - The Recipe for Suspicion
By mid-November, the atmosphere inside the east wing of the Moretti mansion had subtly shifted.
The gloomy silence that had hung over Elena’s quarters for three years began to break under the relentless, cheerful force of Ellie Whitfield. The smells of chemical disinfectant and stale lavender were replaced by the rich, comforting aromas of slow-roasted chicken soup, fresh buttermilk biscuits, and cinnamon-braised apples drifting from the secondary kitchen in the lower level.
Ellie did not use the electric lift to move Elena from her bed to her chair; she used her own formidable, solid strength, lifting the young woman gently, supporting her weight with the easy confidence of someone who had lifted heavy grain sacks and bedridden patients her entire life.
"You're stronger than the male nurses they hired last year," Elena remarked one morning, sitting at her vanity table while Ellie brushed out her long, dark hair.
"My father was a blacksmith in southern Illinois before he took a job at the rail yard," Ellie said, her broad face reflecting in the mirror as she gently detangled a knot. "He used to say that muscles built by real work don't show off, but they never quit when the load gets heavy."
Elena looked at Ellie’s reflection. "Do you ever get scared living here, Ellie? The guards... the guns... my brother?"
Ellie paused the brush for a brief second. "A man who carries a gun everywhere he goes is usually a man who is terrified of the world, Elena. Your brother isn't scary to me. He's just tired. He carries this entire house on his shoulders, and he doesn't trust anyone enough to help him hold the weight."
Behind them, the heavy door clicked open.
Dominic stood in the doorway. He had shed his jacket, wearing only a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the thick veins and dark hair of his wrists. He held a leather folder in his hand, but his dark eyes were fixed entirely on the mirror—specifically on Ellie’s face.
He had been listening from the hallway.
"Elena," Dominic said, his voice deep and raspy from a long night of meetings. "How are you feeling today?"
"Better," Elena said, turning her chair using the joystick. A small, genuine smile touched her lips—a sight Dominic hadn't seen since before the highway accident. "Ellie made beef stew with garlic dumplings. You should eat some, Dominic. You look like a ghost."
Dominic looked at Ellie. The cold, impenetrable barrier he maintained with his employees flickered for a fraction of a second, revealing a profound, soul-crushing exhaustion underneath.
"Miss Whitfield," Dominic said smoothly, stepping into the room. "A word in the hallway, please."
Ellie wiped her hands on her flour-dusted apron, nodded to Elena, and followed the crime boss into the carpeted corridor.
Dominic leaned back against the mahogany wainscoting, crossing his arms. "My head of security brought something to my attention this morning."
"Did I use too much butter in the dumplings?" Ellie asked innocently.
"No," Dominic replied, his voice dropping into a low, serious register. "Two nights ago, at 1:45 A.M., the motion sensors in the main library picked up activity. A cipher pad on the secure filing cabinet was accessed using an old administrative bypass code."
Ellie frowned. "And what does that have to do with me? I was in my room on the third floor asleep."
"The camera outside your bedroom showed you leaving your quarters at 1:30 A.M.," Dominic said, taking a step closer to her. His tall frame towered over her, his physical presence heavy and imposing. "You walked down to the lower kitchen."
"I was making sourdough bread," Ellie stated flatly, meeting his slate-grey eyes without flinching. "Sourdough starter needs to be fed and kneaded at specific intervals if you want the dough to rise properly by six in the morning. If you don't believe me, check the flour on my apron or ask the night guard who came down to steal three warm rolls at two o'clock."
Dominic stared at her, searching her face for a tremor, a blink, or a sweat break—the subtle tells he had spent fifteen years using to send dishonest men to the bottom of Lake Michigan.
He found nothing but absolute, stubborn innocence.
"Who was the guard?" Dominic asked softly.
"Mason," Ellie answered. "The poor boy looked exhausted. He told me he was working double shifts because Mr. Salerno reassigned two of the night guards to the downtown docks."
Dominic’s eyes narrowed by a fraction. "Victor reassigned the night shift?"
"That's what Mason said," Ellie replied, shrugging her broad shoulders. "If you're looking for a thief in your library, Mr. Moretti, I suggest you stop looking at the woman who bakes your sister's bread and start looking at the people who hold the keys to your house."
Before Dominic could respond, Victor Salerno walked around the corner of the hallway, carrying an armful of financial ledgers.
"Dominic," Victor said, his tone authoritative yet warm. "The auditors from the port authority are calling. We need to finalize the shipping manifests for the winter shipments before noon."
Victor’s eyes flicked over Ellie, a cold, subtle disdain passing through his expression like a shadow over water.
"Is the maid causing trouble, Dominic?" Victor asked softly. "If her presence is creating security complications, I can have her replaced by the end of the day with a cleared corporate contractor."
Dominic looked at Victor, then back at Ellie, whose strong hands were resting calmly on her hips, her apron still dusted with white flour.
"No," Dominic said, his voice firm and final. "Miss Whitfield stays. She's the only person in this house who actually makes my sister eat."
May you like
Victor’s jaw tightened imperceptibly, his silver pocket watch clicking softly in his vest pocket as his thumb pressed the latch.
"As you wish, Don Moretti," Victor murmured. "As you wish."
