The Witness (Miami Private Security #4)

5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Sabrina

M ichael led me from the Smiths’ second-floor apartment back to the ground-floor office area. From the outside, the Smith Agency building looked like a big concrete box, with few windows and fewer doors. It had to have been an old warehouse or something that had been converted into office space and the Smiths’ apartment.

The downstairs looked deserted. Then again, it was well past midnight. Office parties weren’t events that raged until dawn, even in Miami.

“Let's see if they left us anything good.” Michael opened a door into an office break room way nicer than most, with a full kitchen, tables, and a lounge area. He pointed me to a table and set about rummaging in the fridge and cabinets.

“Beer, wine, cocktail?” he asked without looking at me. His head and as much of his broad shoulders as would fit were wedged into the fridge.

I was struck again by how big Michael was. I could attest to the fact it was all solid muscle too, from his brightly tattooed biceps bulging against the sleeves of his tee shirt to his thick thighs and tight ass encased in soft gray cotton sweatpants. The man was a specimen. Not at all my type, but…

Easy, I reminded myself. He’s a bodyguard not to be ogled. There are far more important things to worry about. But I couldn’t completely erase the sensation of his arms holding me tight from my brain. The embrace had stamped an awareness of his size and strength into my bones. I was vulnerable, and Steel had protector vibes oozing from his every pore. Of course, I was attracted to him on an elemental level.

“I’d kill for a glass of red wine and a slice of that.” There was half a homemade chocolate sheet cake with thick dark chocolate icing resting on the counter covered with cling wrap. It was a decadent classic that at this moment looked better than even the fanciest dessert my friend Katie, a pastry chef, made. It had been days since I’d been hungry, and that cake was making me salivate.

“Chocolate. Excellent choice. And I have just the bottle of red for you.” He held out a 2015 Barolo, the cork sticking halfway out of the top. “This is one of Leck’s favorites, and he’s kind of a wine snob, so it should be good.”

“That’s a hundred-and-fifty-dollar bottle at retail, minimum. I don’t think your friend, er co-worker, will want us drinking what’s left.” The vintage and vineyard were both among the best in Italy. It was a wine I’d be happy to have on Viande’s wine list—someday.

“Leck is a former co-worker’s husband, and he will not care if we pilfer his wine. He brought a case for the holiday party.” Michael turned opening cabinets until he had both wine glasses and plates for the cake.

He brought everything to the table and handed me the knife to cut the cake. “Will you do the honors, chef?”

I peeled the plastic wrap off the top of the dish and the smells of butter, fat, sugar, and chocolate greeted me. I might have drooled a little as I served us two big hunks. Michael filled our wine glasses.

“A toast.” He lifted his glass.

I followed suit, not sure what there was in my life right now that I’d want to toast to—maybe a wish for good luck. I was safe, but I was no closer to getting my life back than I’d been sitting in the Oceanfront Diner this morning with Lewis.

“To Leck and Quinn, she made the cake. Thank you for a most excellent midnight snack,” he said.

We clinked glasses and each took a sip of wine.

The velvety rich red wine coated my tongue with hints of earth, leather, and raisins. My first bite of cake was the perfect counterpoint. Pure nostalgia. A rich devil’s food with a fudge icing that had a hint of coffee in it. I closed my eyes and luxuriated in chocolate. I might have groaned, but it was the first food I’d eaten since forcing down a slice of toast with my coffee at five this morning.

I chased the cake with more wine.

“What exactly is it you all do?” The basic question was something I’d wanted to ask Kira while I got showered and changed into the clothes she’d lent me, but I’d been too shell-shocked to force out the question. After my epic and very uncharacteristic cry, I’d found my voice.

“The Smith Agency is a full-service security company. We offer everything from advanced digital security systems with private monitoring to close personal protection along with a selection of other specialty services to our clients.” The answer sounded like something he’d memorized from a marketing brochure.

I shrugged. “That was not all that helpful.”

“Think of us as who a client might call when they need more than a lawyer or PR person to protect them from a threat.” Using his fork, he pantomimed holding a gun up like he was on a cop show and getting ready to clear a room.

“That sounds expensive.” And money wasn’t something I could offer. Every penny I had was sunk into the restaurant. I’d sold my food truck and mortgaged my house.

“For most people, yes. For you, nah. You’ve got John Smith’s personal white whale dangling on a hook. There is nothing he won’t do to reel in Sandoval.”

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. “I don’t have anything but a guilty conscience and empty bank account.”

“You can identify Sandoval. You’ve been in his presence, seen his boat. And lived to tell the tale. It’s more than any other witness to his brutality can say. Sandoval’s organization stays powerful for two reasons. No one can point a finger at the man, and he doesn’t leave loose ends.” He counted the reasons off on his fingers.

I rubbed my upper arms to ward off the chill his words threatened to bring back.

“This is about so much more than Gabriela Cantoral’s death, isn’t it?” I wasn’t sure I’d fully believed Lewis when he told me about Sandoval’s ugly reputation.

“Yes.” Michael held my gaze. I searched his face, hoping to find a hint he was exaggerating, but only heartfelt honesty shone in his dark blue eyes.

I took another bite of cake. Those chocolate-induced endorphins couldn’t kick in soon enough.

“On the shitty but awful topic of loose ends. It’s safe to assume that Sandoval’s people know your identity. Do you have people we need to look after? Husband, kids, parents? They are all under the Smith Agency’s protection now.”

I took another sip of the wine as I considered the question. At my age, most people had a laundry list of responsibilities and connections—the mess of midlife. But not me.

“Uh, a brother I’ve not seen in a few years up in Tampa. He’s a cop. And my mom. She lives in a fancy assisted living place near Palm Beach. Very ritzy. I see her on holidays and stuff.” I shrugged. It was sad. At forty-two, I only had two people on my list. “Honestly, if they want to come after me, it’s my business that would get my attention.”

“The catering company?” He wrinkled his forehead in confusion.

“I’m opening a restaurant; build-out is about seventy-five percent complete. I started with a food truck, then branched out into catering. My goal was a brick-and-mortar place by the time I was forty-five. And I’m running way ahead of schedule thanks to winning a food truck cooking competition on TV.”

“Very cool. Where’s the restaurant?”

I rattled off Viande’s address in the heart of Miami’s affluent Design District. And Michael whistled, impressed.

“You have insurance?”

I froze. The next forkful of cake stuck halfway to my mouth. The question filled my head with a vision of my beautiful place going up in flames. I shuddered and squeaked out something that passed as a yes.

Michael took out his phone and fired off a text message. “I’ll get someone to monitor the building. We’ll talk to your mom and brother in the morning. He is a cop, so that’s great. And those fancy assisted living places have decent security, especially at night.”

I sagged with relief and enjoyed my delayed bite of cake, smiling my thanks at him.

“Restaurants are a risky business. Don’t—”

I cut him off. “No, don’t tell me how most new restaurants fail. I don’t want to hear it. My mom has said it often enough.” I wouldn’t fail. I’d promised myself that in honor of Hailey. I’d beat the odds.

“Okay.” He held his hands up like he was going to surrender. “Tell me about it?”

“It’s called Viande. That’s French for…”

“Meat.” He smirked.

“Yes.” I paused and considered what his knowing the translation might mean. Interesting. “We’re remodeling the space now. The soft opening is set for mid-February. I need to get as many days open during the height of winter season as I can. Evey day I delay I’m losing money. The menu is a lot like what I cooked for my food truck. A focus on decadent proteins, cooked in interesting but recognizable ways. Everything from Wagyu beef to foie gras. And since I can get it, local seafood too.”

“Specials?”

“I won the food truck competition with a lionfish taco. Eating an invasive exotic fish played great on television. So I’m kind of known for that and the tacos will have to be on the menu. I’ve been finalizing an Ostrich Chateaubriand and a wagyu and Morel mushroom stroganoff with scratch-made egg noddle pasta. Beyond that, I’m testing a million ideas.”

“Like what else?”

The cake disappeared from both our plates and all the rest of the wine from the bottle as I filled Michael in on my plans. He was obviously both a bit of a foodie and a mixologist. When I started talking about craft cocktails, his knowledge impressed me. Having someone new to tell about Viande helped me forget for a little while why I was locked inside a building that looked like a bunker.

I was fighting back a yawn when Michael stood. “Let’s get you settled in the guest apartment before you pass out at this table. We have clothes, toiletries—you name it—already waiting in the suite. After some sleep, we’ll get to work solving your problems in the morning.”

“It’s that easy?” I looked up, hoping he’d say yes so hard it hurt.

“I’m not promising easy. Only progress.”