Page 1 of Death By Chocolate

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. ButI 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—”

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