Chapter 4 - Cold Tiles and Frozen Peas|
The main kitchen was an industrial cavern of brushed steel, white tile, and subzero refrigerators humming with a low electronic drone. The head chef deliberately kept it freezing, but tonight, the cold felt merciful against her burning skin.
Fay sat on the floor in the narrow aisle between two central prep islands. It was the only part of the room hidden from the hallway windows. She had found a place where no one could see her weakness.
The adrenaline was entirely gone, replaced by a hollow, crushing exhaustion. Her jaw throbbed viciously. She held a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a thin kitchen towel against the side of her face.
When she had looked into the employee restroom mirror an hour earlier, the skin was already turning a mottled violet. Four distinct finger marks spread along her jawline. It was bad—far too bad for drugstore concealer, and too visible to escape questions from the house manager in the morning.
In a mafia household, a bruised maid was not viewed as a victim. She was a liability. It meant disorder. It meant she was involved in something messy.
They would not fire Donovan; he brought in millions. They would fire her. And if Fay lost this job, her mother would lose the experimental oncology treatments keeping her alive.
That was when the tears finally came. Not dramatically, with loud sobbing, but silently spilling over her lashes. Fay leaned her head against the stainless-steel cabinet while her shoulders trembled.
She was trapped. A nobody sitting on a freezing floor, pressing frozen vegetables against her bruised face because a violent man had enjoyed demonstrating his power.
Then, a sharp sound cut through the silence.
May you like
Clack.
The distinct impact of hard-soled shoes on the tiled entryway echoed into the kitchen.
