Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 71949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Great meals teach patience.
I’ve heard those words before. From him. During a lesson.
I force a thin smile and try not to stare at the stick of dynamite. “And explosions?”
He grins. “Explosions, too. Timing is everything.”
I gulp, try to control my shivering.
He rises and walks to one side of the basement where he has several hot plates set up along with tables full of food.
He hums softly. A tune I half-recognize—a salsa melody that used to play in the kitchen when I was sixteen, the same one he’d whistle right before he called me over to “taste” something. My stomach twists, but I don’t look away. If I can prolong this, distract him, maybe someone will trace me here. Maybe Hawk is on his way.
Just keep him busy, Daniela.
The chair is too soft. Too welcoming. It shouldn’t feel like this—not in a place where my hands tremble in my lap and my heart is pounding like a trapped bird slamming against its cage.
“All my life,” Chef says, smoothing his apron as he takes his seat across from me, “I cooked with you for others. Your father. His guests. His associates. But tonight?” He taps the table lightly. “Tonight, the feast is ours.”
The words make my skin crawl.
I swallow hard. “How did you even find me?”
He laughs, as if he’s amused that I’d even bother asking. “Daniela, please. It wasn’t difficult. Social media posts, alumni newsletters, public records… You left a trail of breadcrumbs. Once I started watching you, it was simple.” He leans in slightly. “You’re very devoted to that lovely girl Belinda. Such a soft spot. I realized she’d be perfect leverage.”
A sick wave passes through me. “You spied on me?”
“For weeks.” He shrugs. “I needed to understand your life. Your patterns. Your attachments.” His voice warms, making me sick. “It’s amazing what people reveal without meaning to.”
I grip the edge of my seat. “And Reyes? How did he get involved?”
“Oh, him?” Chef waves a hand. “We shared some drinks back when he visited your father’s manor. I remembered he had a vacation home outside Austin. Something about wanting to be near his niece, the artist. And then, of course, Chef Charleston.” His lips curve into something smug. “An old friendship goes a long way.”
My stomach drops. “Chef Charleston talked about me?”
He nods. “Says you’re highly gifted in the culinary arts. Of course, I already knew that.” He shifts his gaze lecherously. “Among other things.”
I swallow back nausea.
“He also happened to mention,” Chef continues, “that your classmate Jordan had a crush on you. Perfect scapegoat, really. Once I began sending the little gifts, it was obvious everyone would look straight at him. A convenient tragedy.”
My blood runs icy. Jordan. God.
“I watched him,” Chef says, “and I found out about Eagle Bellamy’s drug overdose because he was on the prayer list at Jordan’s church. Very moving.”
I widen my eyes. “So you weren’t responsible for Eagle’s OD?”
He lifts his brows slightly. “No. Must have been someone else.”
Someone else.
A new thread of terror weaves into my bones.
Chef stands. “But enough business.” He lifts a small porcelain plate and sets it in front of me. “Your amuse bouche.”
The dish is beautiful—infuriatingly beautiful.
A miniature white corn arepa, crisp at the edges, topped with a soft quail egg with a micro herb garnish. Beneath it, a whisper of guasca-scented potato cream that sends a flash of Bogotá into the air. Ajiaco broth and damp mornings and everything I’ve ever lost.
My throat tightens. “Is it poisoned?”
Chef looks almost offended. “Of course not. I’ve poisoned men before. Your father’s enemies. Ugly, unpleasant deaths. Foam, convulsions, the slow collapse of a body fighting itself.” He shakes his head. “No grace in it. Eventually I saw it in your father himself, after someone had him poisoned. Completely undignified. He would have been mortified. I would never inflict that on you.”
Cold needles prickle my spine.
“Then what,” I whisper, “do you intend to do with me after this meal?”
His grin spreads. “Eat, Daniela.”
I stare at the tiny dish. My heart thunders. But I lift the arepa with shaking fingers, bring it to my mouth, and take a bite.
The flavor blooms instantly—sweet corn, rich yolk, the earthy guasca threading through creamy potato. Bogotá on a plate. Home and danger mixed so closely I can’t tell them apart.
I hate him for it. I hate that even now, even here, he can make something exquisite.
Chef eats his own amuse bouche. When he finishes, he reaches forward and lights the first candle.
“One course down,” he says softly. “Four to go.”
My pulse pounds like a warning.
39
HAWK
I’m careening down the road at well over a hundred miles per hour. The map app glows against the dashboard, one red pin marking the property.
That pin is all that’s between me and Daniela and whatever waits in that house.
And I’ll be damned if I let her face it alone.