"Boss, exactly how many eggs are you planning to slaughter? At this rate, your own eggs might end up cracked next."
"Keep that mouth running and I'll ensure you never use it to eat a single damn thing again," Raymond hissed.
His patience had officially evaporated. In the corner of the kitchen, Enzo instantly froze, nodding stiffly like a soldier facing a firing squad. Raymond let out a heavy, ragged exhale to rein in his soaring temper. On the counter, the tablet remained propped up against the wall, displaying his private chef's face on the screen, looking entirely drained by the sheer absurdity of the situation.
"Sir, if I may," the chef's voice crackled through the speaker, tentative. "Since you are refusing my direct instructions, perhaps it would be wiser to let Mr. Enzo provide a quick tactical demonstration. Not to relieve you of your post, sir. But merely to show how to fracture an eggshell without completely obliterating the target."
Enzo desperately wanted to scream that he had been trying to do exactly that from the very beginning. As a man who grew up surviving on the streets before climbing the ranks, handling basic survival tasks like cooking a damn egg was second nature to him. The grand secret was quite simple, you don't apply monstrous, bone-crushing force to a shell that fragile!
However, Enzo caught himself the exact second Raymond's lethal gaze snapped toward him. He narrowed his eyes, wisely remembering that Raymond had just revoked his speaking privileges.
"Do it," Raymond muttered abruptly.
He thrust a single raw egg directly in front of Enzo's face. Enzo let out a defeated, quiet sigh, reluctantly stepping into the danger zone.
With effortless, practiced ease, Enzo took the egg, tapped it cleanly against the rim of the ceramic bowl with just the right amount of pressure, and let the yolk slide out perfectly. No mess. No crushed shells. A flawless execution.
Raymond watched the display, his jaw tightening as his voice dropped into a dangerously smooth, sub-zero whisper. "If you could do it that easily, why the hell did you let me ruin half a carton?"
"Because every time I tried to step in, you threatened to put a bullet through my skull, Boss." Enzo remarked dryly, throwing a subtle, mocking jab at his employer. "You're breaking a shell, not dismantling a rival conglomerate. Relax your shoulders."
A low growl escaped the tycoon's throat. Driven by a sudden, stubborn urge to prove he wasn't inferior to his own subordinate, Raymond snatched another raw egg from the carton, his frustration still simmering hot beneath his tailored shirt. He took a few deep breaths, consciously forcing his tense, combat-ready muscles to relax, mimicking the exact angle Enzo had just used.
"If I had known cracking a damn egg was this complicated, I would have just made her a salad."
"Salads require protein too, Boss. You can't just serve a plain bowl of leaves to the Lady, especially not in her condition," Enzo countered smoothly, stepping back to let the don take the lead again.
The logic was airtight, leaving the mafia don completely cornered. For the first time in his life, Raymond genuinely believed that annihilating his enemies and crushing corporate rivals was a vastly simpler task than navigating a kitchen. Exercising an absurd amount of caution, he picked up a silver fork, balancing it between his long fingers as he prepared to strike the target.
"Don't be too gentle with it, or it won't split cleanly," Enzo warned, his tone turning serious as he watched. "Do it right, Boss."
"I know!"
The sharp snap left his lips as he closed his eyes for a brief second, drawing in one last controlled breath. He struck the shell. A crisp crack echoed through the quiet kitchen, followed by the soft, distinct sound of liquid sliding cleanly into the ceramic bowl.
The room fell into a tense silence. Raymond kept his eyes shut, his jaw clenched as he braced for the worst. "Tell me it isn't a disaster."
"I think it's safe for you to open your eyes now, Boss," Enzo replied, a rare hint of amusement bleeding into his tone.
Raymond slowly blinked his eyes open, staring down at the pristine yolk resting perfectly in the center of the bowl. A massive wave of relief washed over him, and a triumphant breath finally escaped his lungs.
"Finally," a dark, victorious smirk cut across his face as he stared at his masterpiece. "I conquered the damn egg."
*****
"This doesn't look half bad, does it?"
A plate containing the simple dinner was later presented to Enzo downstairs. He narrowed his eyes for a fraction of a second, inspecting the sunny side-up eggs and pan-seared sausages, before nodding in approval.
"It's actually very impressive, Boss. Especially if she finds out the man behind it is someone who has never touched a stove."
A curt nod was his only answer, followed by a swift movement as Raymond untied the apron from around his waist. "If it weren't for her … I wouldn't have dirtied my hands with something that reeks of raw eggs."
Hearing the complaint, a faint crease formed on Enzo's brow. Since when did his boss care about an unpleasant smell? The man was practically baptized in the metallic stench of blood. Choosing to keep the thought to himself, however, he silently followed as the tall figure turned to head back to the Phoebe's bedroom.
Enzo didn't intend to step inside, he merely wanted to ensure that the tray containing the fruits of his employer's unprecedented labor made it safely to its destination.
"I hope she likes your cooking, Boss." Enzo offered his genuine well-wishes.
"For once, I'll accept your hopes."
The heavy doors were pushed open by Enzo, allowing Raymond to glide effortlessly into the grand master suite, which was swallowed in a heavy, tense silence. Both of his hands cautiously balanced the silver tray, keeping the plate perfectly steady.
His presence was immediately noticed by Phoebe, who was propped up against the pillows. However, she couldn't bring herself to care enough to give him her full attention, only sparing him a brief, dismissive glance.
"I thought you had left the property," she said coldly.
A shadow of a smirk tugged at the corner of Raymond's lips. "I told you I was going to cook for you, not desert you."
Phoebe maintained her aloof façade, but her defenses subtly fractured as her eyes trailed over to the plate being lowered onto the nightstand. The rich, savory aroma drifting from the porcelain was undeniable, a warm, comforting blend of buttery sunny side-up eggs and perfectly seared sausages.
"I suppose it's edible. Hopefully, you can stomach it," Raymond remarked. For the first time in his existence, a man accustomed to absolute control felt a foreign spike of self-doubt over something as trivial as a home-cooked meal.
Phoebe stared at the plate for an extended moment, analyzing its rustic appearance. "I can't be certain … but at the very least, it doesn't look lethal."
The sharp jab caused Raymond to freeze for a split second. Choosing to ignore the provocation, he smoothly lifted the plate and settled at her bedside, preparing to feed her.
"Do you want to start with the avocado, or save it for the end?" Raymond asked, checking her eating preferences before offering the very first bite.
"I want to enjoy what you made yourself," Phoebe said, her voice still weak but laced with her usual stubborn edge.
"Everything on this plate was cooked by me," Raymond replied without a shred of hesitation. He gestured toward the green fruit nestled on the side of the tray. "Including this avocado. I sliced it myself."
Phoebe narrowed her eyes, studying the man in front of her with deep suspicion. "On what grounds?"
"Because I keep my word to cook for you. Besides, didn't you explicitly tell me earlier not to order anyone else to do it?"
She didn't offer an immediate response, her gaze remaining locked onto his face, searching for any hidden deception. Doubts still dominated her mind.
Noticing her hesitation, Raymond let out a soft grunt. "You can ask anyone you trust if you don't believe my words."
"I don't think that's necessary," Phoebe said slowly, her eyes drifting back to the rustic meal before her. "The chefs in my house usually prepare food that actually looks appealing. As for what's on this plate right now … its appearance is proof enough that it's your handiwork."
A long, controlled breath escaped Raymond's lips as he replenished his rapidly depleting reserve of patience. Dealing with this woman's sharp tongue truly required an extra amount of fortitude. Choosing not to fire back at the jab, he smoothly guided the fork loaded with fried egg right in front of her lips.
"Are you forcing me?" Phoebe asked, halting his hand before she would even consider parting her lips.
"If I intended to force you, I wouldn't be the one sitting here holding a fork, I'd be pinning you down and forcing it down your throat myself," Raymond countered, his voice calm but laced with absolute authority. He nudged the fork a few inches closer. "Come on, don't be stubborn now. Your body is still weak, and it's already late. So, open your mouth and eat, sweetheart."
Phoebe knew perfectly well that the man before her was on the verge of losing his temper. Yet, something was holding that anger back, Raymond continued to speak with an unusual undercurrent of gentleness. More than that, when she dared to look into those dark depths, the gaze he gave her was still undeniably genuine.