Chapter 5 - The Strategy of the Kitchen
By October, the dynamic within the Corvino mansion had shifted into an icy, covert war of attrition.
Arya had stopped coming to the master suite entirely; she had moved her things into the west wing guest apartments, claiming that the sound of Vincent’s physical therapy equipment gave her migraines. She spent her days downtown at the high-end boutiques on Michigan Avenue, her credit cards registering thousands of dollars in transactions that Vincent tracked from his laptop every evening.
He let her spend the money. It was the price of her absence, and right now, absence was what he needed to build his defense.
Every Tuesday afternoon, while Dominic was managing the rail yards and Arya was at her country club luncheons, the kitchen of the estate became Vincent’s alternate boardroom.
“The deliveries from the East Side are short three tons of sugar, Vince,” Rocco said, leaning his massive bulk against the stainless steel prep table. He was peeling an orange with a pocketknife, his eyes fixed on the door that led to the service corridor. “The Moretti family is saying the trucks were delayed by the state police near Gary, but my boys at the weigh station say no trucks went through at all.”
Vincent sat at the end of the marble island, a cup of strong chicory coffee between his hands. Tessa stood by the sink, washing a crate of fresh winter greens, the sound of running water providing a constant, white-noise cover for their conversation.
“The Morettis aren't delaying the trucks, Rocco,” Vincent said, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup. “They’re selling the cargo to the independents in Indiana before the manifests reach our office. Dominic is covering the discrepancy from our contingency reserve.”
Rocco stopped his knife, a piece of orange peel hanging halfway to the floor. “Dominic? He wouldn't have the balls to clear that with the Morettis without your signature.”
“He has Arya’s signature, Rocco,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into a hard, cold line. “She’s been using her family’s old import license to clear the secondary bills of lading through the customs house in Hammond. They think that because I’m not down at the terminal, I don't see the digital logs.”
Tessa turned off the tap. She didn't look at Rocco, but she walked over to the island and set a small, leather-bound notebook down beside Vincent’s coffee. It was the same notebook she used to track the household grocery expenses, but the last ten pages were filled with columns of numbers written in her neat, precise handwriting—dates, truck license numbers, and times of departure from the estate’s private garage.
“The gray sedan left the house at two in the morning three times last week, Mr. Rocco,” Tessa said, her voice professional and calm. “Miss Arya’s driver wasn't behind the wheel. It was Dominic’s nephew, the boy who works at the North Side warehouse. He had a manila envelope with him each time.”
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Rocco stared at the notebook, then at Tessa, his estimation of the quiet maid rising three levels in a single second. “Jesus, Vince. The girl is better than our whole intelligence crew in Cicero.”
“Tessa sees everything because people think she’s invisible, Rocco,” Vincent said, his hand settling over the notebook, his fingers brushing against hers as she released the leather. “And that is the biggest mistake my enemies have ever made in this town.”
