Chapter 8 - THE WHISPER IN THE PANTRY
Deep in the basement level of the Orsini manor, inside the quiet, stone-walled linen pantry, the air smelled of bleach, lavender starch, and cold laundry steam.
Nell stood before a long wooden work table, ironing a stack of heavy white damask cloth napkins for the upcoming Boxing Day luncheon. The heavy brass iron hissed as she pressed it down against the damp linen, its steam rising in warm white clouds around her face.
Her face was pale, her dark circles visible under her eyes. She hadn't slept a single minute after leaving the dining room the night before. She knew the golden rule of survival for an undercover asset: the moment your cover is tested, you pack your bag and vanish into the night.
Yet, her bag remained unpacked in her small third-floor attic bedroom.
The heavy wooden pantry door creaked open.
Nell didn't jump. She kept her right hand moving smoothly over the iron, her face remaining entirely emotionless as heavy, measured footsteps echoed across the concrete floor behind her.
It wasn't Odette. The footsteps were too long, too heavy, too deliberate.
Carmine Orsini stepped into the small linen pantry, shutting the heavy door softly behind him. He had removed his suit jacket, wearing only his black trousers and a charcoal gray cashmere sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his forearms, revealing the dark, winding tattoos on his wrists.
Nell stopped the iron. She set it upright on its metal resting pad, kept her hands folded over the edge of the wooden table, and lowered her head in a quiet, practiced bow.
"Good morning, Mr. Orsini," Nell said smoothly, her voice perfectly calm. "Odette is currently in the main kitchen overseeing the breakfast service if you require something."
Carmine didn't answer. He walked slowly around the long work table, his heavy leather shoes making no sound against the damp floorboards. He stopped three feet away from her, leaning his lower back against the edge of the table, crossing his arms over his chest.
"The pastry chef in our kitchen, Chef Pierre," Carmine began casually, as if discussing the weather, "spent twenty years cooking in five-star hotels in Lyons and New York. He makes six figures a year to oversee the estate’s menus."
Nell kept her eyes fixed on the silver brass button of his charcoal sweater. "Chef Pierre is very talented, sir."
"Chef Pierre didn't make the pie last night," Carmine continued softly. "He was stricken with a severe bout of food poisoning at four o'clock yesterday afternoon. Odette was frantic. She was about to order dessert delivered from an uptown bakery until someone stepped up and offered to bake a traditional Southern pecan pie from scratch."
Nell felt her pulse quicken, but she didn't move a muscle. "I offered to assist, sir. I didn't wish to see Mrs. Puit distressed on Christmas Eve."
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Carmine reached out with his right hand. His bare fingers—warm, heavy, and calloused—gently touched the underside of her chin, tilting her face upward until her hazel eyes were forced to look directly into his dark, dangerous gaze.
"You didn't just assist, Helena," Carmine whispered.
