Chapter 6 - The Councilman’s Banquet: A Tasting That Ruffled Deadly Feathers
Friday evening arrived under a blanket of heavy, rolling thunder.
The Orsini mansion dining room was prepared for eight high-profile guests: Councilman Conrad Bellarose, two port commissioners, a district judge, and Carmine’s inner circle.
Nell worked in the kitchen with machine-like precision. With the help of two kitchen assistants, she prepared a four-course dinner that showcased the pinnacle of Creole-French cuisine: turtle soup with aged sherry, seared Gulf redfish over sweet corn coulis, and roasted duck breast with blackberry reduction.
From behind the service doors, Nell watched through the observation slit as the plates were served.
Conrad Bellarose sat on Carmine’s right, laughing boisterously, sipping vintage Barolo, and gesturing with thick, gold-ringed fingers. Carmine listened patiently, occasionally nodding, playing the role of the attentive business partner to perfection.
Then came dessert.
Nell carried the silver platter into the dining room herself. She was dressed in an elegant black chef’s coat, her dark hair pinned neatly into a chignon.
She set down individual plates of miniature chicory-infused pecan tartlets, topped with a delicate spun-sugar dome and candied orange zest.
Bellarose stopped mid-sentence. He looked down at the tartlet.
"Well, well, Carmine," Bellarose chuckled, picking up his dessert fork. "You certainly know how to put on a show. Where did you find this chef?"
"A local talent," Carmine said smoothly, swirling his wine. "Taste it, Conrad. Tell me if it reminds you of anything."
Bellarose cut a piece through the sugar dome, lifting the fork to his mouth.
He chewed once. Twice.
His laughter died instantly.
His fork clattered against the porcelain plate. The color drained from his ruddy face, leaving him looking sickly and pale beneath the chandelier light.
"What is this?" Bellarose rasped, his eyes darting wildly toward Nell, who stood tall and silent at the side buffet.
"It’s a Fontaine tartlet, Councilman," Nell said, her voice clear, steady, and loud enough to silence the entire room. "Seventeen minutes in the oven. Orange zest harvested from the lower river. And cane syrup cooled for exactly seven minutes."
Bellarose shot out of his chair, knocking his wine glass over. Crimson liquid soaked into the white linen like fresh blood.
"Who the hell are you?!" Bellarose snarled, pointing a shaking finger at her.
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Carmine didn't flinch. He didn't raise his voice. He simply leaned back in his high-backed chair, his dark eyes locking onto Bellarose like a predator watching its prey stumble into a snare.
"Sit down, Conrad," Carmine said softly. "You’re disturbing my dinner."
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