Page 57 of The Witness

“I don’t want people under my feet. I have shit to do.” Sabrina straightened, her arms crossed over her chest.

“Fair enough. How about fully monitored security systems at both locations instead?”

She tilted her head and considered the offer. “What’s it going to cost me?”

“I’ll cover install and one year of monitoring.” Smith stuck out a hand to shake on the deal.

She took his hand. “When can I go home?”

“Give me and Gunter tonight to make some calls. Then we’ll decide in the morning.”

She nodded. “There’s fresh fruit in the break room and Quinn needs you all to tell her what you want for dinner. She’s ordering Thai food. I’m going to shower.”

Sabrina walked out as silently as she’d entered. That uncomfortable sensation in my gut was back, and I wasn’t sure if it was from her turning down the personal protection or because she walked out without looking back.

Chapter 26

Sabrina

“Iwant 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, Igot 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.

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