Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 81292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81292 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
“Do you question my decision?” he asked.
“Damon?”
“It is Mr. De Luca to you, and I suggest you remember your place. If you want to continue to live, you will allow Milah to cook her mother’s dish. If not, I can make arrangements for you not to be so insulted again.”
The threat was clear. Damon wouldn’t allow his insult to slide.
The chef bowed his head, clearly realizing what he had done. A family chef or not, he was not the boss, Damon was.
Chapter Five
“I had no idea you could cook,” Glory said.
Milah was shocked to see the maid return. She expected her to be ordered to stay far away from her. The guards did, or they sneered at her as if ready to kill her. The only one who didn’t make her feel like a prisoner was James. The one she shot. The only guard who should hate her for what she did, was the only one who made her feel … normal.
She heard the whispers. These people hated her. She was aware of the hatred the Russo name inspired, but she wasn’t used to it being so close to her.
No one would dare speak about her or treat her like this at her home. But that was the difference. At home, she was a Russo. The people there were loyal to her. This was the De Luca home. Her sworn enemy.
“I can’t cook, not really. I’m not trained, but I used to watch my mom from time to time.” Her father had hated it when she’d cooked. He considered housework beneath himself and his wife. That was why they had staff to do it.
Her mother loved to cook, though, and bake. It reminded her of her grandmother. A woman Milah never got the chance to meet but had always wished she had.
“Actually, everything I know is because of her. Whenever there was a snowstorm, she liked to make what her mother would make, and obviously what her grandmother would make. It was passed down the female line, and this was it.”
“It smells delicious.”
Milah left her stool and went to the oven. She picked up some oven mitts, slid them on her hands, and removed the pot. Lifting the lid, she allowed the steam to escape and inhaled deeply. She was instantly transported back to a time she was a little girl. She’d been out building snowmen with her mother.
Her father was nowhere to be found.
The chef hadn’t been able to make it in, but her mother had cooked for them. They had prepared this stew before going out and playing. When they got back, they enjoyed it at the kitchen counter, laughing and giggling. Afterward, her mother made hot chocolate, which they enjoyed in front of a roaring fire.
When her father wasn’t around, her mother got to be the woman she always wanted to be.
Milah pulled away from the memory, gave the pot a stir, and placed it in the oven.
“If you would like, you can try it,” Milah said, trying to control her emotions.
“I don’t know if I could,” Glory said.
She felt … deflated. Glory was a nice woman. The only one who was talking to her like she was a human being. The other staff ignored her or scowled her way.
Such open animosity surprised her.
“Of course. That is fine.”
Milah sat back on the stool, waiting. She had already cleaned up all the dishes, so she didn’t need to do that. She kept her gaze on the oven, not wanting to look left or right and risk seeing the hatred in the others’ eyes. She had done nothing to them, and yet they despised her.
Maybe she should have stayed in her freezing cold room.
There had been no guards, and listening in on conversations, she learned the central heating wasn’t working. Damon had allowed the maintenance of the house to go to ruin, and now, trapped in a snowstorm, his men were having to chop firewood.
She knew the safest and warmest place to be was in the kitchen.
The chef left the kitchen, storming out the door, and he returned less than twenty minutes later, looking slightly pale. She had to wonder what he’d done.
He hated her, that was clear.
After another thirty minutes, when the staff were getting the meal ready for Damon, Milah went and checked on her stew. The vegetables were soft. The lentils were cooked. She picked up a spoon, tasted some of the sauce, and closed her eyes.
She could almost feel her mother’s arms wrapped around her, laughing as she tasted it when she was a little girl. The joy she had at cooking.
She opened her eyes and saw Glory had come closer. “I would … like to taste some.”
Milah tried to contain her joy and washed the spoon she’d used. She didn’t want to ask for anything more than necessary.