Chapter 42 Daniela
DANIELA
Chef smiles, the corners of his mouth twitching. Is it nervousness? Apprehension? Reprehension?
Is he having second thoughts?
Apparently not, because he sets the fourth course in front of me with a flourish and another venomous smile.
“Queso fresco and a bocadillo trilogy,” he says, his voice bordering on rancorous. “A celebration of innocence and sweetness.”
Sweetness.
Right.
He doesn’t know the meaning of that word outside of the kitchen.
“Three little jewels,” he continues. “Goat cheese mousse with guava, a tiny yucca crisp with cream, and a quenelle of queso fresco ice cream.”
I swallow.
Goat cheese? Really?
I may love the culinary arts, but there are a few things I never developed a taste for. Goat cheese is one. Most chefs love it and put it anywhere from a simple cheese plate to the most elaborate dessert. It’s supposed to be bright, tangy, slightly acidic—the perfect ingredient.
To me, it tastes like milk that’s been sitting out just long enough to make you suspicious, with an unmistakable barnyard note underneath—animal funk. The texture is wet and chalky and disgusting.
I eat the yucca.
I eat the ice cream.
I leave the goat cheese mousse untouched on my plate.
Goat cheese can go to hell.
He watches me leave it and smirks, like he remembers.
Of course he does.
He served it on purpose. He wants to see if I’ll actually eat it, attempt to savor it to prolong the inevitable.
He’ll be sorely disappointed.
If I’m going to die tonight, I’m not doing it with goat cheese on my tongue.
He watches me. Studies me. Drinks slowly from his wine glass. This one is a dry rosé. Chefs love to pair a dry rosé from the Rh?ne region of France with any kind of goat cheese dish.
“Are you finished?” he asks.
I smile as sweetly as I can. “What do you think?”
“Still won’t eat it?” he asks. “Even when I prepared everything especially for you?”
I draw in a breath quietly. Measure my words. “The braise was lovely, Chef. Truly. The ceviche flawless. The arepa was the perfect amuse-bouche. You prepared them all with my pleasure in mind. But you know how I feel about goat cheese.”
“You think you can be a successful chef without one of the most universal ingredients in fine cuisine?”
I smirk. “If Guy Fieri can be a success while hating bell peppers, I can certainly be the chef who refuses to use anything associated with a goat.”
My own words make my stomach churn.
I’ll never be any kind of chef. I gave it all up to save Belinda.
And while the thought saddens me, still I have no regrets.
“Eat it,” he says.
“No.”
“You can do what you’ve been doing, Daniela. Eating slowly, as if stretching out this meal will save you.” His eyes darken. “It won’t.”
He’s right, of course. Time is the only weapon I have right now.
He stands. Smooth. Unhurried. As if we’re savoring a gourmet tasting menu in the finest restaurant instead of a basement mausoleum.
He takes a match, holds it between his fingers and stares at it.
Then he strikes it, and the flame hisses to life.
He lights the fourth candle, its flame wobbling in the stale air like it’s struggling to breathe.
The last candle. The last one until the explosion that’ll turn us both into red mist.
I swallow hard, forcing the bile back down. He doesn’t need to see me gag.
He wants performance.
I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing my fear.
“Final course,” he announces softly. “Then we ascend.”
Ascend.
Cute way of saying detonate.
He steps away to the counter against the wall.
I slide my hand down my thigh, heart hammering. Sweat prickles my lower spine.
My fingers find leather. Cool metal.
The sapphire knife.
The one he gave me.
The one I took when he said I could choose any item in his kitchen.
I’ve never actually used it in a kitchen. I always imagined the first thing I’d cut with it would be something tender—a filet, a ripe peach, a cake cooled just right.
Instead, it’s going to be him.
I pull the fabric of my skirt up just enough so I can wrap my fingers around the handle, breath stopping in my lungs.
Just holding it steadies me. Like steel is flowing up my arm and into my bones.
It was always meant for this.
I retrieve it and lay it in my lap, fixing my skirt over it so it’s hidden.
He returns, plate in hand.
“Chocolate Tumaco,” he says, almost reverently. “Cacao from the coast. Passionfruit curd. Candied nibs. Aguardiente caramel.”
He sets the plate down gently.
More ceremony.
This man needs ceremony like lungs need air.
The flourless cake gleams, the ganache frosting glossy and perfect.
It’s a thing of rare beauty. A masterpiece.
And I feel nothing.
Chocolate was once so special to me. It was one of the few things that brought me pleasure in my tainted life. It tasted like warmth. Like love.
After all this?
I have no desire to taste it ever again.
Chef sits. He looks pleased. Ready to savor the last act.
He pours more wine, this time a ruby port.
Good choice. It’s bold, sweet, fruity, with enough structure to match deep chocolate.
Any other time, I’d be gunning to taste this perfect combination.
Now, all I can feel is the noose wrapping around my neck.
My heartbeat turns into war drums as I close my fingers around the knife again.
The room narrows down to only the table.
Me.
And him.
Across from me.
Do it.
Do it.
Do it.
He reaches for his fork.
And in one swift movement, I stand and lunge around the table.
I sink the blade into his left shoulder.
I savor the sick and satisfying resistance.
Yes.
His skin, his muscle.
Then a warm gush over my hand. It’s redder than the port.
He lets out a guttural sound, shock widening his eyes.
Is it surprise? Pain?
Did he truly think I didn’t have this kind of strength?
His wine glass shatters as it hits the floor.
For the first time since I stepped inside this nightmare house, I breathe out what feels like a sort of relief.
He blinks, dazed, blood blooming through his shirt.
And then—
He smiles.
Actually smiles.
“Oh, Daniela,” he rasps, voice full of twisted admiration. “You always did have a way of surprising me.”
He clamps his hand around my wrist—still strong, too strong—and the knife falls from my grip.
He yanks me closer, his breath hot.
The candles still sputter on the table.
The fifth still waits.
He’s bleeding. He will eventually lose his strength.
I stare him down.
I will not break.
I will not scream.
If I go down, I go down fighting.
He presses his forehead to mine. “You always were,” he whispers, his breath ragged, “the most exquisite dessert.”
I punch my fist right into his wound.
He falls from the chair.
He’s bigger than I am. Stronger.
But he’s bleeding.
And the fifth candle isn’t lit yet.
This isn’t over.
I came here to trade myself for Belinda’s freedom—for her life—but the scales have tipped.
Turns out I may not have to die doing it.
Hawk, please…
Find me.
I left no clues. By now Hawk knows I’m gone, but he has no means of knowing where I am.
But he can figure it out. By now he’s spoken to Vinnie and Raven. Vinnie is able to dig up information on just about anyone. He might be able to find out that Reyes or the chef is connected to this place.
It’s a longshot, but it’s possible.
And if Hawk doesn’t arrive in time, I’ll get out of here on my own.