Chapter 6 - The Silver Predator
The four weeks leading up to the gala were a blur of butter, flour, and sleeplessness.
Roz hired two culinary students from Milwaukee Area Technical College, rented space in a commercial commissary kitchen in Walker’s Point, and worked nineteen hours a day. She baked mini bourbon pecans, individual tart-cherry crisps, Meyer lemon curd tartlets with hand-torched meringue, and sixty individual banana cream pies with salted caramel drizzle.
Luca Benedetti appeared at Crust and Crumble three times during those four weeks.
He never mentioned the contract. He never mentioned Serena. He simply came at 6:30 in the evening, after the bakery had closed, carrying two containers of hot minestrone from an Italian deli on Brady Street. He would sit on the wobbly stool by the register, loosen his tie, and eat soup while Roz rolled dough at the marble slab.
"You don't have to stay here," Roz had told him on the third night, wiping flour from her forehead with her forearm.
"My house is quiet," Luca replied, watching the rhythmic motion of her rolling pin. "Too quiet. It sounds like an empty church."
"You could get a dog."
"A dog would die of boredom waiting for me to come home."
Roz paused, looking at him. Under the harsh fluorescent lights of the kitchen, the lines around his eyes were deeper than they had been a month ago. He looked like an atlas of responsibilities, each muscle in his broad shoulders bearing the weight of a dozen family legacies he hadn't asked to inherit.
"You shouldn't let her back in," Roz said quietly, not looking down at the dough.
Luca went very still. He didn't ask who she meant. "Serena is... connected. Her family has history with mine. My grandfather owed hers a great deal."
"Owing someone history doesn't mean you have to let them poison your present," Roz said. She cut a neat circle of pastry and pressed it into a tin. "A bad apple ruins the barrel, Luca. My grandmother used to say that if you leave a rotten one in the cellar because you remember how sweet the tree was forty years ago, you end up with nothing to eat by January."
Luca had looked at her for a long time that night. When he left, he didn't say goodbye; he reached out, caught a stray speck of flour on the curve of her cheekbone with his thumb, and brushed it away with a touch so gentle it made Roz’s knees feel like unbaked custard.
Now, on the night of the gala, the Pfister’s ballroom was a sea of glittering hostility.
Roz had supervised the load-in through the service elevator at four in the afternoon. By seven, the dessert buffet along the north wall looked like an art installation. The three hundred and fifty mini pies were arranged on three-tiered marble risers, flanked by spun sugar, fresh figs, and dark chocolate shavings.
Roz stood near the service entrance in her black slacks and white chef’s apron, checking the temperature on the refrigerated holding cart.
"Well, well. The kitchen help has arrived."
The voice was like chilled vermouth—smooth, dry, and thoroughly intoxicating to people who didn't know it was poison.
Roz turned around.
Serena Vance stood five feet away. She was twenty-eight, tall, and possessed the kind of severe, angular beauty that came from generational wealth and severe caloric restriction. Her gown was an architectural triumph of liquid silver silk, slashed to the thigh, clinging to ribs that showed clearly beneath the fabric. Her blonde hair was swept into an intricate, modern updo, and her throat was encircled by three carats of flawless diamonds.
She looked Roz up and down, her gaze lingering on Roz’s practical black orthopedic shoes and the broad curves of her hips.
"I don't recall approving this vendor," Serena said, tapping her diamond-ringed fingers against a crystal champagne flute. "I specifically contracted with Le Petit Choux for a croquembouche."
"Carmela Benedetti signed the culinary variance four weeks ago," Roz said evenly. "The board approved it."
Serena’s smile was razor-thin. "Carmela is senile. She belongs in an assisted living facility in Mequon, not managing the aesthetic of an elite charity gala. But I suppose when you’re desperate for a handout, you take whatever work the help throws your way."
Roz kept her hands flat against her apron. "The pies are paid for, Miss Vance. The guests are already eating them. If you have an issue with the menu, take it up with the chair of the board."
Serena stepped closer, lowering her voice so only the two of them could hear over the string quartet playing across the room. "I know who you are, Rose Kowalic. Luca’s driver told me he’s been spending evenings in your little grease-trap on Kinnickinnic."
Roz didn't flinch. "He likes the soup."
"He feels sorry for you," Serena whispered, her eyes glittering with cold malice. "Luca has always had a soft spot for stray dogs and broken things. But don't confuse pity with interest, darling. Look at yourself. Look at this room. You are an obese baker who smells like cinnamon and lard. You think because an old woman bought your little tarts, you belong in our world?"
May you like
Roz’s jaw tightened until her molars clicked. "I don't want to belong in your world, Miss Vance. Your world looks like an empty jewelry box with a dead wasp inside."
Serena’s smile vanished. "Watch your mouth, you fat cow, or I will have you thrown out into the alley before the first course is cleared."
