Chapter 1 - Give Me Ten Minutes
Claire Bennett dropped her suitcase beside the stove and whispered, “Give me ten minutes.”
When Dominic Hale entered the kitchen, he noticed a grease-stained accounting ledger beneath her cutting board.
One number had been circled three times.
$18,460.
Dominic realized Claire had not come to Montana merely to cook.
The man who had laughed first was named Rocco.
Claire learned that approximately six minutes after walking into the kitchen, because someone at the nearest table shouted, “Rocco, shut up and let the woman work.”
Rocco only grinned.
He was a broad man in his forties with tattooed forearms, a crooked nose, and the comfortable confidence of someone who had spent years being the biggest man in most rooms.
Claire had met plenty of men like him.
Not criminals, necessarily.
Men who assumed they understood her before she spoke.
Men who looked at her soft face, her round hips, the flyaway curls escaping her bun, and decided she belonged in whatever category made them feel superior.
She had learned not to argue with those men.
She preferred feeding them.
Food had a useful way of shutting people up.
The abandoned industrial kitchen was worse than Dominic Hale's recruiter had described.
Three burners worked.
Two did not.
The walk-in refrigerator sounded as if an animal were dying inside it.
Half the knives were dull.
One convection oven had a door held shut with wire.
There were twenty-two hungry men in the building and, according to the clipboard Claire found near the sink, enough fresh food for maybe one decent dinner.
She opened a refrigerator.
Ground beef.
Tomatoes.
Carrots.
Celery.
Two onions.
Parmesan rind.
A crate of eggs.
Three packages of pasta.
She opened another cabinet.
Dried beans.
Flour.
Salt.
Old herbs.
Bread that was approaching its final useful day.
It wasn't much.
But Claire had cooked with less.
Much less.
Dominic stood behind her without speaking.
He looked exactly like the kind of man people lowered their voices around.
Tall.
Controlled.
Dark hair combed back from a face that had clearly been handsome before responsibility hardened it.
Black suit.
White shirt.
Black tie.
No flashy jewelry except a watch Claire suspected cost more than everything she had brought to Montana.
His men watched him almost as closely as they watched her.
That told Claire more than anything the recruiter had said.
Dominic Hale wasn't simply their employer.
He was their center of gravity.
Claire rolled up her sleeves.
“Anybody allergic to tomatoes?”
No answer.
“Dairy?”
Nothing.
“Garlic?”
Rocco laughed again.
“Lady, we haven't eaten anything decent in four days. You could fry the table and we'd probably thank you.”
Claire looked at him.
“Good. Then you can chop onions.”
The laughter changed.
This time it wasn't at her.
Rocco's smile vanished.
Dominic's mouth almost moved.
Almost.
“You heard her,” he said.
Rocco stared at his boss.
Then he stood.
Claire handed him a knife.
Ten minutes later, onions were sizzling in olive oil.
Beef browned in a heavy skillet.
Tomatoes collapsed into sauce.
Pasta water boiled hard.
Claire shaved the edible crust from stale bread, brushed the slices with garlic oil, and toasted them under the oven's one functioning broiler.
She used grated carrot to stretch the meat.
A parmesan rind enriched the sauce.
Celery leaves replaced parsley.
Black pepper did what expensive ingredients could not.
The kitchen began smelling alive.
Conversation faded.
Men who had spent the last four days eating canned chili and protein bars slowly turned toward the stove.
Claire tasted the sauce.
More salt.
A little pasta water.
Another minute.
Rocco folded his arms.
“Ten minutes are up.”
Claire filled a plate.
Pasta.
Sauce.
Parmesan.
Toast.
She pushed it toward him.
“Then eat.”
He took a forkful.
Dominic watched his face.
Rocco stopped chewing.
Someone behind him said, “Well?”
Rocco swallowed.
Claire waited.
He took another bite.
Then a third.
“Son of a—”
“Language,” Claire said automatically.
Twenty-one hardened men stared at her.
Claire froze.
Rocco stared too.
Then Dominic laughed.
It was quiet.
Brief.
But real.
That broke the room.
Men pushed forward with plates.
Claire pointed.
“Line.”
They actually formed one.
For the next hour, the old kitchen became the loudest place in the compound.
Forks scraped plates.
Bread disappeared.
Someone found another bag of pasta in a storage room.
Claire turned leftovers into a second batch of sauce.
Rocco chopped another onion without being asked.
By seven o'clock, every man had eaten.
Several had eaten twice.
Dominic remained near the kitchen island.
His untouched plate sat beside him.
Claire finally noticed.
“You don't like pasta?”
“I was waiting.”
“For what?”
“To see if there'd be enough.”
She glanced at the room.
That surprised her.
Men like Dominic Hale were supposed to eat first.
At least, that was what every story about powerful criminals had taught her.
She filled a plate and slid it toward him.
“You hired me to feed twenty-two men.”
“Twenty-three.”
Claire looked at him.
“You count yourself?”
“Sometimes.”
“Then sit.”
Another strange silence spread around the kitchen.
Rocco stared openly.
Dominic raised one eyebrow.
Claire wondered if she had just made the shortest career decision of her life.
Then Dominic pulled out a chair.
He sat.
“Boss,” Rocco said, “I think she just ordered you around.”
Dominic took a bite.
He chewed slowly.
Claire pretended not to watch.
Finally he said, “And I think you should keep chopping onions.”
The room erupted.
Even Claire smiled.
It might have remained a simple victory if she hadn't begun cleaning afterward.
The men drifted away.
Dominic took a phone call.
Claire wiped the counters, checked inventory, and started making a list of everything she would need.
Twenty-three men.
Three meals a day.
Seven days.
Even buying cheap staples, the costs would be significant.
She needed suppliers.
Bread.
Eggs.
Potatoes.
Rice.
Beans.
Vegetables.
Meat.
She found an old desk wedged into a storage alcove.
Inside were receipts from when the building had once operated as a mining camp cafeteria.
Most were useless.
But beneath them sat an old ledger.
Claire flipped it open.
The final entries were fifteen years old.
Daily meals.
Wholesale purchases.
Cash sales to nearby crews.
Then something caught her attention.
The old kitchen hadn't merely fed workers.
It had sold meals.
Hundreds each week.
Truckers.
Logging crews.
Ranch hands.
Construction teams.
Claire looked toward the dining hall.
Twenty-three men ate here.
But the kitchen could serve two hundred.
Maybe three hundred if properly organized.
She began writing.
Food cost per plate.
Labor.
Fuel.
Packaging.
Delivery radius.
Twenty-dollar meal.
Seven-dollar cost.
Thirteen-dollar gross margin.
One hundred meals.
Two hundred.
Three hundred.
She circled a weekly estimate.
$18,460.
“You work fast.”
Claire nearly jumped.
Dominic stood in the doorway.
She covered the page instinctively.
His eyes dropped to her hand.
“That ledger belong to you?” he asked.
“No.”
“Then why hide it?”
Claire hesitated.
This man was dangerous.
Everything about his world told her to answer carefully.
But she'd spent the last five years surviving by being careful.
Careful hadn't saved her restaurant.
Careful hadn't saved her savings.
Careful hadn't stopped her former business partner from disappearing with forty thousand dollars and leaving Claire responsible for every unpaid bill.
Careful had led her all the way to Montana with one suitcase.
So she removed her hand.
Dominic read the figures.
“What is that?”
“A possibility.”
“For what?”
“This place.”
He looked around.
“It's a kitchen.”
“It's an asset.”
Dominic's eyes sharpened.
Claire pointed toward the dining hall.
“You've got commercial equipment, storage, road access, generators, refrigeration, and twenty-two men already eating here.”
“Twenty-three.”
She ignored the correction.
“There are ranches within forty miles. Construction crews. Logging camps. Truck routes. The nearest decent hot meal is almost an hour away.”
“You've been here three hours.”
“I looked at a map on the shuttle.”
That almost-smile returned.
“You planning to sell my food?”
“You barely have food.”
“Fair point.”
Claire tapped the ledger.
“If you're buying ingredients anyway, volume lowers cost. We cook for your people and sell the extra.”
“To whom?”
“Anyone hungry.”
Dominic studied the number.
“Eighteen thousand a week.”
“Before taxes, repairs, payroll, waste, packaging, fuel, and about twenty other problems.”
“So not eighteen thousand.”
“No.”
“What is it really?”
Claire looked at him.
“At first? Maybe three.”
“Three thousand?”
“If we're lucky.”
Dominic leaned against the desk.
“That doesn't sound like a fortune.”
“No fortune starts as one.”
His expression changed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough for Claire to notice.
He wasn't laughing now.
“Why did you really come here, Claire?”
The question landed harder than she expected.
“For the job.”
“You had restaurants in Seattle.”
“One.”
“You trained in Chicago.”
“For two years.”
“You catered private events in California.”
“Three summers.”
“And now you're feeding Rocco in Montana.”
“Everyone makes mistakes.”
His gaze stayed on her.
“Was coming here one of them?”
Claire shut the ledger.
“I haven't decided yet.”
Dominic nodded.
“Good answer.”
He left.
Claire exhaled.
Then she noticed something else inside the ledger.
A folded piece of paper had been tucked beneath the back cover.
It wasn't fifteen years old.
The paper was fresh.
The ink looked recent.
Claire unfolded it.
There were four names.
Three trucking companies.
One restaurant distributor.
Beside each was a dollar amount.
At the bottom was a handwritten note.
MONDAY. 11:30 P.M. REAR DELIVERY DOOR.
Claire looked at the clock.
11:07.
She turned toward the dark corridor behind the pantry.
A metal door stood at the far end.
The rear delivery entrance.
Claire took one step toward it.
Then she heard a truck engine outside.
May you like
The headlights swept beneath the door.
And someone on the other side knocked three times.
