The Witness (Miami Private Security #4)

26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

Sabrina

“ I want to go home.”

“Me too, Mom.” I tipped my head back and looked up while burrowing into the plush lounge chair. The view from the Smith Agency rooftop patio was breathtaking: the nighttime skyline of Miami and a few of the brightest stars in the cosmos.

“I miss my ladies at Silver Palms. Captain Morgan is supposed to be part of the living Nativity scene this year. And I’m in charge of the New Year's Bridge tournament. I’ve got to get more teams signed up. Not to mention my holiday party. There is cooking to do.”

Her mother: the social butterfly. So typical. While I was the poster child for bad work-life balance. All work and no play. Especially now that it was just me at home.

“I know, Mom. I know. John said probably tomorrow.”

It had been the longest week of my life. I’d aged ten years since the morning at the Oceanside Diner. I’d been shot at, stared down a gang lord that wanted to kill me, and snuck into and out of Cuba. You couldn’t make this shit up.

I should want to hide at home and sleep for a week. But I wasn’t ready to be alone yet. I might have sounded tough telling John Smith I didn’t want his guards, but I was happy to be here in this fortress of a building for the night. It was a chance to regroup and find my center before I plunged back into my life at high speed. Tomorrow I’d be ready.

I sighed and let my eyes close. I listened to the Miami River down below, lapping at the seawall and the sounds of the city: traffic, car horns, a radio blaring. Damn, I loved the hot, messy, loud, multicultural shit show that was Miami.

“Quinn showed me pictures of what they did to the restaurant. How are you going to repair it?” Mom asked tentatively, like how you’d ask about a sick person who might be dying.

I sat up straight and willed a rod of steel into my spine. If Mom sensed weakness, she wouldn’t hesitate to rehash the debate about me opening my own restaurant… again. “Insurance money. Blood. Sweat. And tears. Oh, so many tears.”

Mom nodded slowly, accepting my determination as par for the course with me.

She didn’t understand my desire to open a restaurant of my own. I’d explained the promise I made to Hailey, but it didn’t stop her from reminding me eight out of ten new restaurants failed in the first year. That wouldn’t happen to Viande. I wasn’t going in blind. The two years I spent cooking in my food truck had taught me so much I’d never learned working in someone else’s kitchen. Plus, I had my following from the food truck and TV show. God bless reruns. Every time the season finale aired, I got a ton of new fans on social media. My catering jobs had also built a lot of awesome connections.

No way I let Sandoval ruin my dream. No, fuck dreams, Viande was my reality.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go back to a regular job? The insurance money would make that possible.”

I laughed to keep from crying. “Mom, I’m a forty-two-year-old cook. Is that all you think I can be? I want more. This is my last chance to try. I might soar or I might sink. But fuck it at long last, I’m going to try.”

“But honey, it makes me so nervous. Line cooks, managers, sous-chefs all get paychecks. Restaurant owners go into bankruptcy.”

“No, Mom, I’m going to kick ass. Trust me.”

She smiled, trying to believe. Thankfully, she had no idea about my massive mortgage or that I’d sold the food truck. She thought the truck was my safety net, waiting to catch me when Viande failed. Yeah, all I had left was my ancient catering van and old car.

I sat forward in my chair, resting my elbows on my knees. We were face to face, and I looked directly into her eyes. “Working for someone else, all I get is a paycheck. I’ve had a lifetime of that, and I’m not going back.”

The horror stories I could tell her. Misogyny was the rule of the day as I came up in the kitchens of Miami. From greasy spoons to five stars. Back then, most chefs were men with egos the size of Texas. Some were just strict taskmasters, but too many were sexist pigs. I’d worked at enough places in enough different roles to have experienced it all. My place would be different.

“I know you only ever took those other jobs to support your daughter. I wish you and her father had been—”

“Oh no, we’re not playing that game. George was a sperm donor. Nothing more. I raised her, and I didn’t need or want his help.”

God, it had been ages since I’d thought about George “The Sperm Donor” Lauder. A plastic surgeon cheating on his wife with me. If only I’d known. So much would have been different. I’d have cut him from my life like the scum-sucking bastard he was long before I got pregnant. But then I wouldn’t have had Hailey, so the past wasn’t all bad.

I met George when I was working the front of the house at an up-and-coming hot spot in South Beach. Twenty-four years old and learning the restaurant business from both sides. The ink on my degree from culinary school had barely been dry. I was busting my ass as a floor manager at the new hot spot. All I remembered about the place was the décor, not the food. Everything had been white inside except for a few red and purple accents in the art. The definition of hip in that era. I think they gave me the job because my red hair matched the theme.

I’d been a fool for George. When I figured out I was pregnant, I thought we’d be a happy little family of three. That fairy tale would never come true. But the life Hailey and I had shared had been a hell of a glorious adventure. The only shitty part had been the end. Outliving a child is a kind of hell on earth. It gutted me.

Mom squeezed my leg. She knew I was thinking about Hailey.

“She was an incredible girl. It’s not fair—” My heart ached so hard in my chest I pressed my hand to my sternum. If I started crying now, I’d need a month to recover.

“No tears. We promised her.” Mom dabbed at her eyes and blinked hard.

“Yeah, we promised. No tears, only happy memories.” Grieving my daughter was something I did daily, but it was also something I tried not to overdo. That time had passed. I had to keep living. Hailey wouldn’t have wanted me paralyzed by grief.

“She’s my motivation. I told her I’d open my own place.”

Mom sighed. “Honey, you can’t hide from grief by working.”

“I know, but it's not the worst coping mechanism. Just ask my therapist.”

“Okay.” She leaned over and hugged me.

Nothing like a hug from Mom; it heals all wounds from a scraped knee to a broken heart. We sat back in our chairs and dried the tears we weren’t supposed to be crying.

“So how was Cuba, really?” she asked with a look that said please distract me .

“Scary. Terrifying. But we did it.” I shook my head in disbelief, still amazed at what had gone down.

“Don’t you mean: you did it? I heard enough to know you were playing a very dangerous role.”

“We,” I emphasized. “I only succeeded because Michael wouldn’t let me fail. He was so worried for my safety that I knew with him beside me there was no way I’d get hurt. I had faith in him.”

“Faith. Humm, is that what you kids are calling it nowadays? Because he can’t keep his eyes off you.” She actually smirked. It was like I was back in middle school and she’d seen a boy walk me home from the bus.

“Mom, be serious. He offered to kill a man for me, and then he shielded my body from flying bullets with his own.”

“That is hot.” Quinn sighed like a smitten teen as she set down a frosty silver ice bucket. “I hope you two don’t mind if I crash your party. I brought the good stuff from Kira’s special stash.”

“Never, my dear, you are always welcome,” my mother said with genuine affection.

Mom had told me that Quinn had been her savior while I’d been in Cuba, keeping her sane by not only feeding her the information she craved but also supplying much-needed distractions from her fears.

“Awesome.” Quinn unearthed three elegant shot glasses from the ice in the bucket and filled them with vodka for each of us. The label on the bottle was all in Russian, and the clear liquid inside was thick from time in the freezer.

“A toast. To new friends.” Quinn nodded at my mom, then me.

We carefully clinked our cold glasses together, careful not to spill a drop.

I took a small sip; the icy vodka was smooth as silk. It slid down my throat, cooling any lingering heat from the Thai food we’d all had for dinner.

“Kira has tried to teach me a Russian toast, but I keep forgetting it,” Quinn said after her sip. “But that doesn’t stop me from liberating her vodka every chance I get. I think John buys this stuff on the black market for her.”

“My late husband always kept it simple: saluti.” Mom raised her glass a second time.

“Saluti,” Quinn and I echoed, lifting our shots in return.

We all fell silent for a few moments, enjoying our after-dinner drink.

“So you two were talking about Steel when I first came up, right?” Quinn all but bounced with excitement.

My cheeks heated. I wanted to blame the vodka but…

“Yes. My daughter was trying to dissuade me from my belief that he is—”

“Taking her personal protection very personally?” Quinn raised her eyebrows in my direction.

“Ugh, he’s so not my type. I’ve never been into action movie heroes or guys that ride motorcycles, but after Cuba with Michael Steel, I might be.” I waved a hand in front of my hot cheeks.

Quinn giggled and Mom and I joined her.

“That’s funny, because you are so his type. Michael has a bit of a white knight complex. He loves a damsel in distress.” Quinn wasn’t laughing any longer; she had her head cocked looking at me like I was a puzzle she needed to figure out.

“That’s not me. Not anymore. I’ve got my boss girl panties on, and starting tomorrow, I’m kicking ass all by myself. Time to get back on my timeline for the restaurant opening.” Gun fights and international criminals might have been beyond my comfort zone, but insurance paperwork and motivating lazy contractors were totally in my wheelhouse.

“I’m not so sure Michael is ready to give up the white horse and lance yet.” Mom looked at her glass of vodka and not at me as she made her prediction.

“I’m sure you two will figure it out. More vodka?” Quinn held up the icy bottle, and I was surprised to see I’d finished my drink.

I held out the glass for a refill.

Michael had been my superhero in Cuba. My safety net and my lover, but now that we were home, did we make any kind of sense as a couple? Would he even be interested?

Normal me was a ball buster. I stood against the world on my own. First as a single mom and now as an entrepreneur. I had a niggling suspicion if Quinn was right about Michael’s type he and I may not be as compatible as the two passionate nights in a Cuban hotel had indicated.

I tossed back half the shot and savored the cold menthol-like burn.

“Quinn, you mentioned you had filed as much of the insurance paperwork as possible without me. Can you get me copies?”

“Already have them in a file with your name on it.”

“Perfect.”