Chapter 13 - A Different Kind of Recipe
By 5:00 AM, Mara was standing in the kitchen of La Petite Bouche, the high-end catering service that supplied the Moretti estate. The kitchen staff was tied up securely in the pantry, guarded by two of Dante’s men, while Mara stood over a massive industrial mixer.
She wasn't making bread today. She was making a delivery.
Dante stood by the door, watching her with a mix of awe and concern. "Mara, this is insane. If they recognize you—"
"They won't," Mara said, adjusting the white chef’s hat and the oversized apron she had donned. "Luciana saw me for five minutes in a dark bakery. The guards at the estate don't know my face. They expect the regular delivery van and a chef. I’m the chef."
She was preparing a delicate soufflé and a basket of freshly baked croissants—Luciana’s documented favorite breakfast. But concealed within the double-bottomed delivery crate were three smoke grenades, a compact tracking device, and a suppressed pistol that Dante had forced her to take.
"The moment you get inside the kitchen, you drop the tracking beacon near the main security hub," Dante instructed, his voice tight. "My team will be waiting at the perimeter. The second the tracking signal goes live, we cut the estate’s jamming frequencies and move in. You have exactly four minutes to find Lena and get to the basement cold storage. It’s reinforced steel; it can withstand a blast."
Mara turned off the mixer, the silence in the kitchen suddenly heavy. She walked over to Dante, looking into the eyes of the man she loved. "If we don't make it out of this, Dante..."
"Don't say it," he interrupted, his voice cracking. He cupped her face, kissing her with a desperate, fierce passion. "We are going home. We are going to fix the kitchen ceiling, and you are going to bake the worst, most burnt loaf of bread in history, and I am going to eat every bite of it. Do you hear me?"
Mara nodded, a tear escaping her eye and mixing with the flour on her cheek. "I hear you."
At 6:45 AM, the silver delivery van pulled up to the massive iron gates of the Moretti estate. Two guards with automatic weapons approached the driver’s side window. Valentin, dressed in a delivery driver’s uniform, tipped his hat.
May you like
"Breakfast for Ms. Moretti," Valentin said smoothly.
The guard looked into the back of the van, his gaze lingering on Mara, who was carefully holding the heated delivery crate. The guard grunted, waved his hand, and the heavy iron gates began to swing open. The lion’s den was open, and the baker was walking right inside.
