The penthouse was a fortress of glass and steel, suspended high above the glittering, rain-slicked streets of the city. Rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, distorted shadows across the minimalist furniture.

Julian Thorne sat behind his massive mahogany desk, dressed in

"Eighty-six the minestrone! I need two gallons of the chicken and wild rice on the hot line, five minutes ago!"

Clara Vance wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead with the back of her wrist, her chef’s knife a silver blur as she julienned a mountain of carrots. The subterranean kitchen of Thorne

The silence in the kitchen was suddenly deafening.

Clara kept her chin tucked so firmly against her chest she could feel the fabric of her apron chafing her neck. Her hands, resting flat against the stainless steel counter, were rigid. Beside her, the massive industrial pot of bone broth continued