Chapter 40 Daniela
DANIELA
I stare at that fifth candle.
Which isn’t a candle at all.
He’s going to light it after the last course.
Blow us both up.
But will he really? Is Chef ready to die? Or is it just me he wants to kill? Keep me from ever servicing another man again?
Back in Colombia, death seemed preferable to entertaining my father’s friends.
There were times I thought about ending it all.
Especially after my father forced me to choose which girl would be substituting for me while I was out of commission.
The guilt was too much to bear, and I found myself standing on the edge of my balcony wondering if death was the only way I’d escape it.
But I never did it. Even in my darkest days, a tiny glimmer of hope radiated within my heart. Then Vinnie saved me.
And I met Hawk. I learned that sex can be something beautiful, a physical expression of the love we share. And the tiny glimmer of hope in my soul sprang eternal.
Until now. Now it’s been snuffed out.
Or has it?
I don’t know what Chef wants tonight, but what I do know is that cooking is art to him. Not just a painting or a sculpture, but performance art as well.
This whole thing could be an elaborate performance, complete with my starring role as the young girl in the blue dress.
I swallow. I make my throat work like this is normal. The tablecloth under my fingers isn’t normal. It’s the same pattern as those sheets from Vega. Chef wants me to recognize it. He wants me to remember. He wants to traumatize me.
Fine.
If this is a performance, I can act.
I slide one hand into my lap and press two fingers to the back of my thigh. The coolness of the hidden metal calms me. Still there. Still mine. No one patted me down.
I sit. Back straight. Ankles crossed. I place my hands on the table, palms down—like my father taught me for etiquette dinners when diplomats came through the house—and breathe through my nose until my heartbeat steadies.
“Very pretty,” Chef says, setting a new plate in front of me. “Course two.”
It’s shrimp ceviche. There’s lulo—a citrus fruit that lies somewhere between a pineapple and a lime—in the marinade. I inhale the green-sour note of tartness mingled with robust tomato. Red onion petals lie on top. A cloud of coconut foam sits off to the side.
“Ceviche de camarón con lulo,” he says, as if I can’t identify a dish I’ve watched him make a hundred times. “With coconut air.”
“I remember,” I say, and my voice doesn’t break. “You said the coconut should taste like the idea of the sea. Not the sea itself.”
He smiles, as if he’s rewarding me for getting an answer right.
I hold back puke.
He places a matching plate in front of his chair.
“Eat.” His voice is almost gentle. “Slowly.”
He doesn’t have to tell me. Slowly is my whole plan.
I pick up the tiny fork, spear a single shrimp, and let the marinade drip as if I care about keeping it off the wretchedly patterned tablecloth. I bring it to my mouth and stop halfway, inhaling.
Citrus. Onion. The faint, wild sweetness of the lulo.
I touch the foam to my tongue. It slides into a touch of coconut, and then…nothing.
I take ten seconds to chew. I take five to swallow. I set the fork down and line it up with the plate edge.
“How long did you cure them?” I ask, eyes on my fork.
“Eight minutes,” Chef says. “The acid was on fire today.”
He moves into my field of vision.
I resist turning my head. Every time I don’t look at him is a small victory. He circles the table. I let my shoulders relax a millimeter.
“The lulo,” I say. “You found some here?”
“Frozen purée,” he says with disdain. “Acceptable for people who don’t know any better. Luckily for you, I do.”
I spear another shrimp. I lick a fleck of onion off my lip. Stick my chest out. “So,” I say as conversationally as I can. “Reyes.”
He doesn’t seem to notice my overt action. He was never that interested in my boobs. Only my mouth on his disgusting dick. Then again, he requested the blue dress. If I can seduce him—God, the thought makes me gag—maybe he’ll be more vulnerable.
Still, he seems interested only in the dinner as he pours a pale wine. Probably a Sauvignon Blanc. It was always one of his favorites. Frankly, I think it’s overrated.
“What about him?”
“He met me at the door.” I dip the shrimp in the foam. Balance it on the fork. Wait a beat. “Is that a new alliance or an old one?”
A tiny shrug. “A shared interest.”
“In me?” I eat the shrimp, slowly, so I don’t choke on the food or the words.
“In resolution,” he says. “He is not a subtle man, but he understands pressure.”
“You put a bomb on a bus,” I say, licking my lips.
Still, he doesn’t notice my overtures.
Strange.
“Insurance.” He takes a sip of his wine, eyes on his own plate, as if I’ve said something tactless and we’re moving past it out of politeness. “Eat, Daniela.”
I eat. I eat like a person who might die tomorrow and who wants to taste something right now that isn’t fear. The lulo sparkles on my tongue. The coconut tastes like a beach. The onion stings just enough to remind me I have a tongue. I take a plantain chip and snap it in half so the sound echoes.
Halfway through the ceviche, I stop to breathe, head tilted like I’m considering something profound about texture. What I’m considering is blood. My pulse has slowed enough that my fingers don’t shake. Good.
“Do you remember the first thing I made you taste?” he asks.
I catch a flash of his cologne—amber, pepper, the dry thing he wore when I was sixteen and so eager to be praised I would have eaten cayenne by the spoonful if he told me it would make me a better cook.
I smile without showing teeth. “The cocoa nibs. You said to feel the bitterness all the way to the back of my throat.”
His laugh is genuine. It hits me in the stomach. “You were very obedient that day.”
“I was terrified,” I say.
He doesn’t react. At least not overtly. I see subtle interest.
Does he want me? What is this all about?
I didn’t expect to come here and be confused.
I take another bite. Another. I lick foam from the pad of my finger slowly to buy seconds and then pick up the wine and let it breathe against my lip while I count to five. I take a small sip, just enough to wet. I won’t take the chance of being plied with alcohol.
When my plate is empty, I don’t slide it forward. I let it sit. Chef doesn’t pounce with the next course. He rises.
I can feel him thinking. I see him eyeing the second candle.
“You always did pace yourself,” he says at last. “I appreciated that.”
“You trained me to,” I say. It comes out like a confession. I shove it back down my throat with another small sip of wine.
He collects my plate.
His hand trembles a fraction.
Interesting.
He’s not as in control as he wants me to think.
He’s just a man with a plan and five candles—one of which isn’t a candle.
He returns and strikes a match with a hiss, touches the flame to candle two. The wax liquefies, and the wick turns black.
One.
Two.
Three to go.
I look away and think about Belinda. Think about her sweet laugh, her cheeseball empire, about her piano scales marching up and down the staff, about how she’s a little girl who loves shopping and sleepovers but can play Debussy as smoothly as any virtuoso pianist.
I twist the edge of my napkin with my thumb and forefinger.
Chef returns with course three.
It’s braised flank steak—sobrebarriga. He’s cut it on the diagonal into slices, fanned like a hand of cards.
“Sobrebarriga with a reduction of malbec kissed with panela,” he says. “Served with yucca purée, charred baby carrots, and heart of palm salad with lime zest.”
The reduction is perfect, like a satin ribbon. Chef was always good with any kind of sauce, especially reductions. He never hurried them. Let them take the time they needed to reduce to such a perfect gloss. The yucca purée is smooth enough to see a reflection in.
The entire presentation is beautiful.
Obscenely beautiful.
Any Michelin restaurant would be proud to serve this dish.
As far as last meals go, I couldn’t ask for better.
My stomach flips at the thought.
Yes, it is my last meal.
But it’s worth it to have saved Belinda. She’s younger than I am. She has a chance.
I’m already ruined.
I set my hands on either side of the plate, trying to ground myself. Chef pours something red.
When I pick up the knife, it feels lighter than the one against my thigh.
I cut the first slice. It’s tender as butter. I drag the small piece of beef through the reduction and bring it to my mouth.
Oh…
For a second I forget my fear.
The meat is that good, that perfect.
The tannin in the reduction complements it perfectly.
The yucca is silk.
I close my eyes, just once. If I don’t walk out of here, at least this bite mattered.
“Good?” Chef asks.
“It’s perfect.”
My voice has a warmth to it that I don’t expect.
A warmth because I mean the words. The dish is exquisite.
Chef drops his shoulders a fraction.
If I didn’t know better, I might think his power over me slackened just a touch.
How best do I take advantage of it?
“You always loved a braise,” I say, adding a touch of seduction to my tone. I take a small bite of carrot, chew, swallow, lick my lips. “The patience of it.”
His mouth twitches. “The control of it.”
I look up at him through my lashes. “Patience is control.”
He laughs then.
Not a sharp or barking laugh.
No.
This is a real laugh. A laugh of enjoyment.
Good. Enjoyment slows men down. It makes them sentimental. It makes them talk.
“How long have you had this planned?” I take a sip of the wine.
Damn. It’s excellent with the braised flank steak, which only pisses me off because nothing about tonight should taste this good.
“A long time,” he says simply.
In my mind, I imagine a timeline. Chef watching, contemplating, planning. I haven’t been gone from Colombia very long. This was quick on his part. Things fell into place for him—his friendship with Chef Charleston, his partnership with Reyes.
It all clicked.
“Why five courses?” I keep my tone airy. Curious.
He glances at the unlit third candle. “Because luring you here and serving you takeout would be tacky.”
I stop my jaw from dropping.
Not at all what I expected from him.
I’m not sure how to respond.
He speaks again before I think of what to say.
“The dessert,” he says. “You always loved dessert.”
I spear a carrot to stop my hand from shaking. I still say nothing.
He sets his fork down. The air shifts.
He stares at me. I hold his gaze for a moment and then lower mine.
Seduction isn’t working. He’s throwing me curveball after curveball.
What the hell is this all about?
“Eat,” he says. “Please.”
Please? Why the hell would he say please?
I eat. Slowly. I cut pieces so small a mouse would complain. I dab reduction, swipe purée, mash carrot. I let the fork hover as I count drips of wax down the side of candle two. I glance toward candle three, candle four…
Candle five.
Say something, Daniela. Something intelligent.
“Do you remember the first time you taught me to braise?” I ask as I lift another bite. “You said the meat has to surrender.”
“It still does,” he says. “Everything does, in the end.”
Not everything.
Not me.
Not without a hell of a fight.
Chef eats, but he doesn’t seem to enjoy the food.
I set my fork down and reach for my wine. I take a sip and then another to buy more seconds, making sure I don’t drink enough to impair me. Then I finish the course. Slowly.
Slowly.
Achingly slowly.
When the plate is finally empty, I let my shoulders sag like I’m full. I lay the knife and fork together at four o’clock. I dab my mouth with the napkin, place it beside the plate, and meet Chef’s gaze.
“Course three,” I say lightly, “was indecent in its perfection.”
He smiles. “Wait for four.”
“Why?” I pout a little, because there’s no faster way to make a man talk about his art than to pretend you might not appreciate it. “Tell me.”
He cocks his head. “Because I want to see your face when you taste it.”
Time, he means. He wants time. To watch. To own my reaction. It’s always been that with him, more than even the sex. The taking in.
I can use that. I can slow time to a crawl.
No one knows where I am.
But Hawk and Vinnie are smart, cunning. They’ll figure it out. If I give them enough time.
He stands and reaches for the matchbox again.
Candle three.
He pauses with the match on fire and looks at me.
And I see it—the way his mouth softens.
This is a man who is a master of his art. Who believes good food can change the world. If I told him this dish healed a wound, he’d believe me.
The match touches the wick.
The flame hisses to life.
Three.
Three flames burn.
I fold my hands in my lap so he can’t see them shake. The knife against my thigh sits cool, giving me courage.
If I never make it out of this basement, at least I’ve done one thing right. I’ve bought minutes. I’ve made him talk. I’ve made him wait.
“Ready?” he asks softly. “For the fourth course?”
Performance.
He’s after performance.
“Always,” I say, and I smile like a woman with all the time in the world.