Chapter 4 - The Summoning
Down in the kitchen, the tension was thick enough to cut with a butcher's knife.
The thirty cooks stood paralyzed around their stations, staring at Tessa as if she had just performed a black-magic ritual. The empty bowls and prep tools sat scattered around her, and Tessa was quietly wiping down the stainless-steel counter with a damp rag, her expression calm and unreadable.
"She's going to be executed," Danny whispered loudly from the corner. "I'm telling you, Callahan is going to have her thrown off the Huey P. Long Bridge by midnight."
"Shut up, Danny," Marisol hissed back, though her own hands were trembling as she dried a stack of plates.
Just then, the heavy double doors swung open. Marcus Vance walked back into the kitchen, his imposing frame cutting straight through the center of the room. Every pair of eyes tracked his movement.
Vance didn't look at Fletcher. He didn't look at Danny.
He walked straight up to Tessa, stopped two feet away, and nodded once.
"Mr. Callahan will see you now."
The kitchen collectively stopped breathing.
Fletcher stumbled forward, waving his hands frantically. "Wait! Mr. Vance, please! She’s just a floor runner! She didn't mean to overstep—if she violated protocol, I take full responsibility! Please don't take her upstairs—"
"Quiet, Arthur," Tessa said softly. She untied her white kitchen apron, folded it neatly, and laid it on the prep table. Then, she looked up at Vance. "Lead the way."
The private elevator ride to the third floor felt like a slow descent—or ascent—into an alternate reality. The walls were paneled in dark, polished mahogany, and the digital floor indicator ticked upward in silence: 1... 2... 3.
Ding.
The doors slid open, revealing a dimly lit, sprawling penthouse suite that smelled of old money, expensive cigars, and crushed velvet. Vance escorted Tessa down a short, carpeted hallway and pushed open a pair of heavy carved oak doors.
The private dining room was breathtaking. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the glittering expanse of the New Orleans skyline and the dark, winding ribbon of the Mississippi River. At the far end of a long mahogany table sat Ronan Callahan.
He was standing now.
Up close, Ronan was even more imposing than he appeared from a distance. Tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp, aristocratic features etched into a permanent mask of cold authority. But right now, his eyes weren't cold. They were fixed on Tessa with an intensity that made the hair on the back of her arms stand up.
In front of him sat the empty porcelain bowl. Not a single drop of soup remained.
Tessa stopped ten feet away, keeping her hands clasped loosely in front of her. She didn't cower, nor did she cross her arms in defense. She simply waited.
Ronan took a slow step forward, his gaze scanning her face as if trying to decipher an ancient, hidden code.
"How?" Ronan’s voice was barely a whisper, echoing softly off the high ceilings. "How do you know that recipe?"
Tessa tilted her head slightly. "It's an oxtail and bone broth reduction, Mr. Callahan. With a custom-roasted spice blend, slow-swept onions, and a touch of wild mint. It's not magic."
"Don't play games with me," Ronan snapped, a sudden, fierce flash of raw emotion breaking through his stoic exterior. He closed the distance between them in three long strides, stopping just inches away. She could smell the faint scent of bourbon and cedarwood. "That recipe hasn't been made in public—hasn't existed anywhere outside of my own head—for fourteen years. My mother made it for me the afternoon before she died. Everyone who knew her, everyone who ever tasted it, is dead or gone. So I am going to ask you once: How do you know it?"
Tessa stared up at him, her hazel eyes reflecting the warm glow of the wall sconces. "My name is Tessa Rowe. I learned it from my mentor. An elderly woman named Eda Boudreaux."
Ronan froze. The color instantly drained from his already pale face.
"Eda..." Ronan breathed, stumbling backward half a step as if he had been physically struck. "Eda Boudreaux?"
"You knew her?" Tessa asked, her brow furrowing in sudden confusion.
May you like
Ronan didn't answer right away. He turned around, walking back toward the window, gripping the wooden back of his chair so tightly his knuckles turned stark white.
"Knew her?" Ronan muttered, a bitter, hollow laugh escaping his lips. "Eda wasn't just a cook, Miss Rowe. Fourteen years ago, she was the housekeeper and cook for my family. She was the only person who walked out of that house alive the night my mother was murdered."
