Chapter 28
DANIELA
The hallway to my suite feels longer than usual. My mind is a tangle of voices—Vinnie’s instructions about the chocolates, Raven’s assurance that Belinda is safe, Hawk’s determination to go after Reyes. Alone.
I close the door to my suite behind me and lean against it for a second, listening to the muffled quiet. In here, I can pretend for a moment that I’m just another woman with a normal life, a normal bedroom, a normal trash can that doesn’t hold potential murder weapons.
The box is right where I left it—on top of the trash, the lid askew.
I crouch and stare at it before I pull a gallon-sized plastic bag from my pantry, hold it open, and slide the chocolates inside. The faint scent of candy wafts up, and my stomach tightens. One piece is all it would have taken. One careless bite on the wrong day.
I place the zipped bag on the counter.
And I remember…
All the other gifts from the men over the last three years.
Lingerie, folded into tissue paper and boxed. Dresses that clung in all the places men liked to look, not the places I liked to show. Jewelry—cold metal and cold stones that warmed only when my skin did.
Stranger things, too.
Music boxes that played notes so delicate they were almost sad. Paintings of landscapes I’d never see. Silk bedsheets from Diego Vega embroidered with my initials and his—his way of saying I belonged to him.
I hated all of them. No matter how rare or expensive, every gift was tainted by what I had to do to get it.
Except one.
The only gift I ever truly valued.
And it wasn’t from a man I serviced. Not because my father forced me too, anyway.
It was from the chef.
* * *
Two Years Earlier…
I slip inside the kitchen quietly, but Chef spots me instantly, glancing over his shoulder with that look that says he already knows what I want.
“You want to learn?”
I gaze at the trays lined with white ramekins, the air thick with the scent of chocolate and cream. “You’re making soufflés.”
“Mini soufflés,” he says. “For tonight’s dinner. I’ll walk you through it.” His smile turns sly. “In exchange.”
I sigh, already knowing what that means. “Now?”
He tilts his head toward the pantry.
His bonuses. That’s what he calls it. He once told me he likes my bonuses better than the yearly trips to a private island that my father gives him.
I suppose that should make me feel good. It doesn’t.
It’s quick, mechanical. I focus on the cool shelves at my back, the faint scent of dried herbs and onions, the way the dim light hums above us. His body is sweaty and coarse, and I breathe through my mouth to block the smell.
His dick is disgusting. It tastes like salt and dirt, and he holds my head, fucking my mouth.
I don’t gag anymore. Though sometimes I have to pretend if someone likes it. But I tamed that reflex long ago. I had to in order to get through it all.
When it’s done, I wipe my hands on the towel hanging by the door, and he’s already at the counter, cracking eggs.
“You start with the whites,” he says. His tone changes when he talks about cooking. “You have to beat them just right. Too soft, and it collapses. Too stiff, and it breaks.”
I watch as he whisks in a perfect rhythm, the egg whites turning glossy, peaks like snow-capped mountains.
“Do you watch those cooking competitions?” he asks, a little grin on his face. “On the Food Network. It’s my guilty pleasure. Hell’s Kitchen, Cutthroat Kitchen. Half those guys couldn’t make a decent soufflé if their lives depended on it.”
My father doesn’t let me watch much television anymore, but I watch cooking whenever I can. “You’d win,” I say, massaging his pride a little. I’ve learned what to say and how to say it to bend men to my will. It helps sometimes. They’re a little less cruel.
He laughs and folds the chocolate mixture into the egg whites with deliberate motions. “Here,” he says, handing me the spatula. “Gentle. Don’t deflate it.”
I copy his movements, careful not to rush. For a moment, I forget where I am, who I am, and why I’m here. Instead, I’m preparing soufflés for my own restaurant. In Paris, maybe. Or Spain. Or the US.
The soufflés bake, filling the kitchen with a smell so rich it almost makes me dizzy. I help Chef clean up the kitchen.
When the soufflés are done, Chef pulls them from the oven.
“I made an extra.” He slides one toward me, powdered sugar falling in a soft drift across the top. “Taste.”
I break the delicate surface with a spoon. Steam rises as I lift the bite to my mouth and blow on it to cool it. Then I taste. The texture is light but decadent, the chocolate melting against my tongue. “It’s perfect.”
“Take something,” he says. “From the kitchen. A gift. For my best student.”
“What?” I ask.
“You heard me. I’m feeling generous today.” He looks at me, licking his lips. “And well-satisfied.”
Disgust boils in my stomach, but I tamp it down.
He’s offering me something from his kitchen, and I’m not going to give up this chance.
I scan the counters, the shelves, the gleaming row of knives on the magnetic strip above the counter.
One catches my eye—a Japanese chef’s knife with a carved wood handle, a sapphire set into its base.
It’s beautiful, perfectly balanced. He only allowed me to use it once.
It felt perfect in my grip, like it was made for me.
“That knife,” I say.
He raises an eyebrow. “Anything but that one.”
“But you said anything.”
He sighs. “I did. Take it, then. I won’t be quite so generous the next time.”
I don’t doubt his words. Next time I’ll probably have to fake gag.
I wrap my hand around the handle and let the weight of it settle into my palm.
And I can’t help myself. I actually say, “Thank you.”
* * *
Present Day…
I walk into my bedroom to my nightstand. The knife is wrapped in linen, tucked in the back of the bottom drawer. I pull it out.
It’s one of the few things I had time to grab before I fled Colombia with Vinnie and Serena. I’ve cooked plenty since I came to the States, but I’ve never used it.
Not because it’s too fine.
Because it belongs here, in my bedroom, where I can reach it in the dark.
If he comes for me here, in my home—the man behind the poisoned chocolates, the roses, the notes, the grenade—this knife sinking into his flesh will be the last thing he feels.