The Witness (Miami Private Security #4)

20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Sabrina

I shoved my shoulder hard against the swinging door that led into the kitchen, my empty tray balanced on one hand. The bright overhead lights burned my retinas after spending time in the dusky ballroom.

I exhaled and released some of the stress clogging my lungs. The controlled chaos of the commercial kitchen was my happy place. The typical smells and sounds wrapped around me like a lovely garlic-scented blanket. If I tried really hard, I could almost pretend that this was just a regular night in any of dozens of places I’d worked in over the years. No matter how fancy the hotel or average the restaurant, there was a sameness to every kitchen. I tried to forget about Sandoval and fall into the familiar rhythm of the work. Maybe they’d let me join the line and add my efforts to the dozen or so cooks busting their asses to create the hors d'oeuvres for the party.

I set down my tray on the stack of used ones and enjoyed another calming breath of pungent air while I leaned against a white subway tile wall. Looking for Sandoval had been an exercise in frustration and fear thus far. The poor lighting made everything so much harder than I’d expected. The last thing I wanted to do was get within three feet of the man, but up close and personal was the only way to clearly see people’s faces in the candlelight.

I’d almost quit. Told Michael that it was too dark, and I was too nervous I’d get recognized to keep looking. The words had trembled on the tip of my tongue, ready to spill out. All I wanted was to crash into his arms and pretend that none of this was real. Go back to our room, strip naked, and do everything that felt good.

But… Michael and I weren’t real life. It was a fantasy. A hot, delicious fling. My destroyed restaurant was reality.

I didn’t survive twenty-plus years in the kitchen, the struggles of being a single mom, and losing my daughter only to give up now. I was strong, and I did the hard shit because a long time ago I gave up on waiting for a white knight to come along and do it for me.

“?Oye!” The expediter standing at the pass snapped his fingers and pointed to a fresh tray of canapes that a cook had just finished assembling.

I jerked away from the wall and grabbed the platter. It had been a few years since I worked the front of the house as a server, but I knew what was expected. It was a minor miracle I’d yet to bobble a tray, because my head was on everything but the food I was serving. Thank the Lord for muscle memory.

I hustled out of the kitchen, deftly ducking around two other servers and out the swinging door. I turned left, away from where Michael had been standing with the two PNR men, and headed for a distant corner with a grouping of low couches I’d not visited yet. When Michael and I were alone next, I planned on asking him to tell me all about the Cubans. They were making a lot of promises to Gunter, and I hoped Michael was getting good vibes from them.

Getting to the far side of the room took longer than I’d expected. Hungry guests waylaid me to snatch food off my tray. I forced myself to smile and nod at them as a trickle of sweat ran down my back and dampened my bra. The combination of stress and an antiquated AC system not up to the increasing number of people in the room had me sweating through my uniform vest.

The group of men in the corner were arranged in a loose semicircle on couches and lounge chairs, all facing one man in the center, his back to the wall, sitting in a throne-like armchair. I threaded my way into the circle and offered my tray of black bean fritters to a bald-headed man with crude tattoos on his knuckles and a silver cross on a chain around his thick neck. He looked like a thug dressed up for prom.

I glanced around the circle. The others looked little different except the man on the throne. He wore a slick suit and alligator loafers that glistened in the candlelight. Dark shadows hid his face, but his build was right. It could be Sandoval. Shit.

Two over muscled guys, stood behind him, their arms crossed and faces hard. A third was practically genuflecting before him as they spoke in hushed tones. The scene reminded me of something from the movie The Godfather.

I felt ridiculously awkward as I moved from one stone-faced man to the next, offering each a napkin and a fritter. Most took food and a few even thanked me.

When I’d finally made my way to the headman, I didn’t want to look. The collection of dangerous men, the deference, and the strange quiet in the area. If Sandoval was in this room, he was in that fucking chair.

I forced a wide grin to curve my lips and proffered my tray, trying to keep a fall of hair over half my face when I turned in the man’s direction.

“Black bean fritter?” I dared a glance, and my knees almost gave out.

It was Rafa Sandavol.

A flash of utter and complete loathing like I’d never felt for another person turned my feet to lead.

I wanted to kill him.

It wasn’t a passing thought, it was a base need. Like breathing air. I wanted to kill him.

The icy hot rage burning in my veins wasn’t like anything I’d ever experienced before. I never hated a person before this moment. Not really.

The tray in my hand shook slightly. I considered using it to bash in his skull. End this here and now. Slam the metal edge against his temple, deal the killing blow.

My pulse beat hard and fast, echoing in my ears. But for the bodyguards and the room full of people, I’d do it. I had what it took to commit murder. Cold-blooded murder. Premeditated murder.

The man deserved it.

If only the situation was different…

Sandoval looked up. His gaze hardly touched my face on the way to the tray. His lip curled, and he shook his head. My black bean fritters were not to his liking. The completely human way he considered and dismissed my offering kicked my brain and my feet back into gear.

What the hell was I doing?

I escaped the vicious thoughts in my head and pulled back from Sandoval. Only a few more men in the circle to feed. I kept my back to him as I made my rounds, not sure how I kept from crying or puking as I did it. As soon as I could, I made a beeline for Gunter and told him where Sandoval sat.

I slammed through the swinging kitchen door at a jog. I needed air.

Camellia stood talking with the food expediter. I shoved my tray into her hands.

“I’m going to be sick.” It wasn’t a lie.

Bile climbed up the back of my throat and tears streamed down my face. The plan had been for me to feign sickness after I found Sandoval and rush back to the hotel room. No need to act. The nausea rolling in my gut was all too real.

“The closest bathroom is that way. Don’t come back.” As Camellia pointed, she looked the annoyed boss from head to toe.

I ran down the hall, my thundering steps echoing off the concrete floors and walls. My toe caught on a black rubber floor mat and I stumbled, almost falling.

My heart felt ready to explode by the time I jerked the bathroom door open. A button popped off the black uniform vest and clattered over the tile floor when I ripped open the polyester straitjacket. I turned on the tap and dunked my hands in the cold water. Then scooped some over the back of my neck and down my throat, soaking the starched white shirt’s collar.

I braced my hands on the countertop and hung my head, eyes closed. The memory of Gabriela Cantoral’s white bed sheet floating up in the sky and then falling to the surface of the sapphire blue ocean filled my mind.

A sob threatened to break free.

I lifted my head and took stock in the mirror. I looked like shit. Hair mussed. Makeup smeared and my eyes red. The urge to vomit, thankfully, had passed. Plunging my hand into the running water, I filled my palm and rinsed out my mouth.

Time to get it together. I’d convinced Michael and Gunter that I could handle my part in the plan to take down Sandoval. I’d volunteered to be bait in the trap. Looking at my reflection, it was a good thing my role required me to look scared because I was terrified.

I took a scratchy brown paper towel from a small stack on the counter and wet the corner. I wiped away the mascara under my eyes, trying to restore my appearance.

Tonight, I’d pointed the finger at one of the most dangerous men in the world. A man that already wanted me dead. A shiver raised the hairs on my arms and made my breath catch. There was no going back now.

“You got this,” I told my reflection.

I was a shit liar.