Death by Chocolate (Lunchtime Chronicles Season 7 #69)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

DANIELLA ALONZO

“Luis, let go. The ovens are hot.” I hear my Mom yell at my father. Daddy pawing and teasing Mom while she’s hard at work happens often.

I stroll into the kitchen from the storeroom, depositing two twenty-pound bags of sugar on one of the long rectangle work tables. Our family bakery is one block off New Orleans’ famous Canal Street. My Mom always jokes that even the devil has a sweet tooth.

“Daddy,” I squeal, running to hug him.

“Morning, my good girl,” he says, releasing Mom to give me one of his famous bear hugs. “You keeping an eye on my moon.”

“Yes, Daddy. But I’d rather work with you today.” He always calls Mom, Celeste, his moon, and my baby sister and I, his stars.

A pan clatters the floor, and I wince.

“Daniella,” my mother snaps. “Be quiet.”

“No, my sweet,” my Daddy chuckles, amused, “Let the girl speak her mind.”

I beam up at him for defending me while my mother stands motionless, lips thinned. She’s upset because she’s told me more than once not to bring this subject up with my father again. But I can wear him down; I know I can. “Please,” I beg, “can I come to work with you today?” He brushes one hand over the dense curls, courtesy of my Franco-African-American heritage, which I’ve tamed with a half can of mousse.

“Aw, my little star,” he clucks his tongue, “This is where you belong. Learning to be a good wife, like your mother.”

I want to join my father’s operation. I tell him repeatedly, hoping he’ll see me as his best ally, a business asset. He’s a dangerous man. But to me, he’s a God. Louisiana is the kingdom he rules with an iron fist. Nothing happens in our state without Luis Alonzo’s knowledge. “But…but—”

One look from my mother dries the spit in my mouth. For now, this conversation is done. My father kisses my forehead before whispering something in my mother’s ear. I hear her breathing change from quiet to quick bursts, but her face remains unchanged. Neither speaks when he dons his custom Fedora and smooths one hand over the lapel of his white suit. Mom returns to her work in silence, the way Daddy likes it.

My sister, Fleur, is at summer camp, so I enjoy the swish and scrape of mixing blades against heavy metal bowls. The kitchen is cool, but the air is warm with scents of real cocoa, sweet butter, and white sugar. Finally, Mom looks at me, her expression neither happy nor sad.

“Do you have a boyfriend, Daniella?”

I giggle at her recent inquiry. She’s asked the same question at least once a week since I turned fifteen. And I gave the same answer in those three hundred and sixty-four days.

“Not this again,” I huff.

Mom usually asks all her nosy questions when we’re in the kitchen alone. No one bothers her here except me and sometimes Daddy. She says it’s the only place she can go when she needs peace. Which must be a lot because she personally opens the doors for business seven days a week.

“What about Silvio? You seem to like spending time with him on their last visit?”

“Mom,” I groan, crossing the room to hug her waist before returning to my perch. “Boys. Boys. Always talk about loudmouth, big feet, sweaty-stinkin’ boys.”

Mom gives me the ‘I wasn’t born yesterday, and you’re hiding something’ stare, “So, not Silvo?” she frowns, but her eyes spark with something I can’t interpret against the LED tubes above.

“Nope, ‘cause all boys are overrated,” I say, wrinkling my nose.

“That’s not an answer,” she huffs, bending at the waist to slide two trays of Death by Chocolate brownies into the lower ovens. “Set the timer, Daniella.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I hop down from the single highback chair in the kitchen, reserved for Daddy, to do my part. She’s taught me all this stuff, but I have no intention of spending my Saturday mornings in a kitchen mixing batter or rolling dough. At least, not the kind Mom makes. Like my father, I want my dough, green and tax-free. “Can I have the first bite?”

She chuckles then. “Don’t I always take care of you? Now, about this boyfriend. What’s his name?”

“Mom, why all the questions? Ain’t no cuffing season happening for me.” I try not to meet her eyes, thankful my braces are gone since I’m lying through my straight front teeth. This close to Sunday, I’ll probably be struck in the mouth by lightning for misleading my mother. But she did ask about boys, and that’s all.

“I was fifteen once, Daniella. I know how boys fill your head with fantasy. And a mother knows the signs when a girl is all in to give some boy her treasure who ain’t worth a penny.”

My jaw clenches at the hurtful comment. Oscar is a man, not a pimple-faced boy, but all I say is, “Mmkay. And I’ll be sixteen in the morning. And Dad said I’ll be a wom—”

“Don’t you tell nothing about your father,” my Mom interrupts, her words brisk, the knife in her hand pointed at me. “And don’t talk to me like I don’t know my own child, Daniella. Now you say there’s no one, but a long time ago—”

“Stop,” I interrupt, knowing that anything that starts with “a long time ago” will not work in my favor. I don’t tell Mom about Oscar ‘cause she’ll say he’s too old, too dangerous. Or worse, I’m too young. Silvio is close to my age and a family friend. She likes him for me. But Oscar. Every girl in the city knows his reputation. To be on his arm is ev-ery-thang. “No stories about teenage love or how Daddy stole you away.”

Her hand clenches on the serrated knife handle. She keeps slicing baker’s chocolate, but her smile slips. I’m immediately sorry for mentioning a story she hates. Not that she told me, but I can tell. Mom never talks about how they met. But my father, huh? Luis Alonzo holds court with Fleur and me; she’s six and a half, so baby-ish, and me at his feet, soaking up details of how he stole my mother away from a life of desperation.

They’ve been acting funky with each other for months. Arguing behind closed double doors late into the night. My room is the farthest from the master suite wing, but screaming and cussing carry like smoke, spreading far and thick, choking every time I hear my name. Then, my mother’s cries deafen my father’s torrential downpour of profanity.

Mom points to the slanted wooden block loaded with white-handled cutlery. “Hand me a butcher’s knife.”

I nod, turning my back to do as she instructed. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a blade aimed at my face. In one smooth motion, I shift my body away while I block the serrated blade in my mother’s fist with my forearm. She’s taller, using her height as an advantage to drive me backward.

Relax, Dani, I tell myself.

Maintaining the high block, I stepped out, widening my stance, making it more difficult to take me down. The move throws Mom off balance. Her height and momentum worked to uproot her sure footing. But she still managed to drive her fist into my shoulder. The blow sent me staggering.

“Tap tap,” she says, indicating she’s hit her target—me.

“Ouch,” I screeched. “That hurt.”

“Good,” she shuffles back, giving me room to recover or possibly attack again. “You were distracted.”

Sweat has my t-shirt sticking to my armpits. Heat permeates the space, dampening my skin, the combined oven heat, and personal exertion. I roll my shoulder, then wince. “I’ll have a bruise.”

Mom shrugs. “Pain is a great motivator,” she says, standing taller, signaling an end to this session. “When you’re hurt, tired, or upset, you’ll fall back on your training. Neutralize the threat first. Then you relax.”

I sulk back to my seat, defeated and pouting. I flick a small pile of flour, the mass floats on a powdery cloud toward the closed windows and doors. Mom keeps our training sessions private, even from my sister.

“Why do you teach me all this stuff? Daddy keeps us safe.”

She grunts. “Your Daddy may keep you safe. What I teach you will keep you alive.”

“Duh, Mom,” I shake my head at the absurd comment. “If I’m safe, then I’m alive.”

My mom mutters something I can’t hear. It doesn’t matter. If not Daddy, then Oscar will rescue me. The Alonzo’s respect his business acumen and muscle. I’d overheard my father say as much a dozen times when Oscar and his men visited our estate. He’s twenty-seven with his own house—no, a fortress. His army would save me.

Mom didn’t ask any more questions the rest of the day.

That night, while my parents argued, my beloved took me from my bed. Once we were in flight, he slid his ring on my finger. I was his. Those were the words he whispered in my ear when he kissed me.

I never saw Mom again.

But I remembered her training five years later when I slid a knife across my husband’s throat and sprayed his blood over our white tiles with a smile on my face.

I neutralized the threat, but not the army.

My only options—kill or die trying. Until then, I run.