Chapter 6 - The Taste of Fire
Monday morning arrived with a blinding winter sun reflecting off the pristine snow.
When I entered the Marchetti kitchen at 8:45 AM, Sophia was already sitting at the island, her small hands resting beside a bowl of fresh Granny Smith apples. When she heard my footsteps, her face lit up with a radiance that could have melted the ice outside the window.
"Mia!" she cried out, sliding off her barstool and navigating the floor with her cane until she collided with my legs, wrapping her arms tightly around my waist.
I dropped my bag and knelt down, pulling her into a tight hug. "I missed you too, sweetie. Are you ready to make the best apple pie Chicago has ever tasted?"
"Yes!" she shouted, her small voice echoing through the house.
Alaric walked in two minutes later, holding two steaming mugs of fresh coffee. He handed one to me, his fingers lingering against mine just long enough to send a quiet warmth blooming through my veins.
"Good morning, Mia," he said quietly.
"Good morning, Alaric," I smiled.
For three glorious hours, the kitchen was a place of pure magic. Sophia peeled the apples using an ingenious mechanical hand-crank lathe I had brought, feeling the thin ribbons of red and green skin curl off the fruit. She tossed the crisp slices with brown sugar, dark cinnamon, nutmeg, a squeeze of fresh lemon juice, and a tablespoon of browned butter.
"Smell that, Sophia," I said, leaning over the large copper bowl with her. "What does cinnamon smell like to you?"
"It smells like... like fireplaces and warm blankets," she giggled, her fingers tossing the spiced apples until every slice was perfectly coated.
By noon, the pie was assembled—a gorgeous, lattice-topped creation resting in a heavy ceramic dish, brushed with egg wash and sprinkled with coarse turbinado sugar. We slid it into the main oven, setting the timer for forty-five minutes.
"Now," I said, wiping my flour-covered hands on my apron. "While it bakes, we clean."
Suddenly, a dull, heavy vibration rattled the high glass windows facing the garden.
It wasn't thunder. It was a deep, concussive explosion that shook the floorboards beneath our feet.
BOOM!
The lights flickered and died, plunging the vast kitchen into dim afternoon shadows.
Outside in the hallway, violent shouts erupted, followed instantly by the sharp, terrifying sound of automatic gunfire.
May you like
TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
"DOWN!" Alaric roared, jumping across the island and tackling Sophia and me to the tiled floor, covering both of us with his large frame just as the high glass windows smashed inward in a shower of lethal crystal shards!
