It was just the beginning.
Fallen Knight
1
Molly
Gritting my teeth, I shoved the blade of the butcher knife down with all my strength. The crunch might’ve been more satisfying if it’d been going through what I wanted it to—my boss’s daughter Candi’s head—but instead, I had to make do with the red onion on the cutting board. As if on cue, Candi’s whiny voice rose in volume, reaching me through the walls of the kitchen.
“But these Louboutin’s are purple. Purple. I told you I wanted the blue ones. I hate purple!”
“Darling, the clerk said they were royal blue,” Candi’s dad said, trying to placate the little bitch.
“They’re purple! So ugly. I’ll never wear them!” Then the brat burst into tears. She threw a tantrum like a two-year-old, shouting and crying. All fake, of course. This was how she got her way.
God, just kill me now.
I’d been working for the Benton family for two weeks as their in-home chef, and it’d been the longest two weeks of my life. Well, okay, that wasn’t strictly true. I’d had a lot of long miserable weeks in my life, and I’d survived them all, too. But Candi’s over-the-top behavior stood like a sharp, heavy weight on my last nerve.
Maybe it wouldn’t have been so irritating if the job paid better. As much money as these people had, they could afford more. But instead, I received twenty cents above minimum wage to cook three meals a day for them. Since I’d
lost my job at a local diner when they’d gone out of business, I’d taken the position the Bentons offered.
I’d thought working with one family would be easier than cooking for multiple customers in a restaurant environment.
Boy, had I ever been wrong.
They’d instructed me to prepare food ahead of time for breakfast and lunch, simple meals they could refrigerate then pop into the microwave if necessary. But they wanted all their dinners fresh and hot. Which meant I had to be right there in their house to prepare them every single night.
Creating meals brought me solace. At least usually. For nine years I’d worked at the Intersection Diner, first as a server, then as a cook. Old Man Bertolli hired me then took me back to the kitchen as a sort of apprentice. He’d been such a sweet, kind gentleman. He’d been patient and generous as he showed me the secrets of the culinary arts.
I’d been a high school dropout with no hope of a decent future. But he’d taken me in. Believed in me. He was like the grandpa I’d never had.
Then, he died. He’d been sick for a long time and hadn’t told anyone, including me. He’d wasted away before my eyes. The big C. Cancer. And once he was gone, the diner began to circle the drain. Bertolli senior had bequeathed the place to his son who had no ambition and no talent with business. The son filed for chapter seven six months later.
Which left me not only mourning the old man but jobless to boot.
I looked around at my massive stainless-steel surroundings. Before working here, I’d never been in such a ritzy home. It was the type of residence I’d dreamed about growing up. High ceilings with exposed beams. Five bedrooms and four bathrooms. Chandeliers. Either travertine tile or plush carpet throughout. A multi-car garage. A gym with a sauna. Lavish and comfortable.
I would’ve given nearly anything to live in such a place as a kid.
Maybe that’s why my toleration for Candi was almost nonexistent. She had no idea how lucky she was. She’d never had to dig through dumpsters for food. She’d never slept in a gutter and been awakened by a sudden downfall of icy cold rain. She’d never sold her body to the first guy who’d offered her a fifty-dollar bill in order to feed her baby sister.
Granted, I’d only done that last thing once.
My sister Tara had been eleven and starving at the time. I’d been sixteen and desperate. I’d tried to pretend I was somewhere else as I let the man do what he wanted, but the whole experience had been painful and degrading. Horrifying even. So when I saw the Help Wanted sign in the window of the diner, I’d gone in. I’d been dirty and injured, sore and hungry.
In more ways than one.
Really, Bertolli should’ve shown me the door. Anyone else would have. But he didn’t. He’d taken one look at me and led me upstairs. At first, I wondered if he planned to hurt me, too. Instead, he’d shown me his shower, given me some of his granddaughter’s clothes, and offered me a clean, safe way to make a living.
He’d allowed Tara and I to move into his granddaughter’s old room, so we’d be off the streets. His giving nature allowed us the opportunity to live without fear for the first time ever. My sister had even been able to stay in school and make something of herself.
Before him, I hadn’t believed in miracles or even that good things could happen. For that reason and many others, Bertolli would always be an angel in my eyes. My own personal guardian angel.
He’d been far nicer to us than either of my parents had. My father had been an angry man who’d done nothing but yell and physically abuse my mother. In fact, in one of his rages, he’d beaten a guy he worked with to death, landing him in prison right after Tara was born.
My mom had divorced him shortly after, but instead of making something of herself, she grew weak. My mother drank frequently before this, but once my dad had been taken away, she began to stay drunk. All the time. At one point, she disappeared never to return. With no adult in our lives and no means of support, my sister and I ended up homeless.