Page 35 of Victorious Vice

“Sounds very tasty,” I say.

Daniela smiles. “It is, Señor.”

“And this next thing. With chimichurri?”

She nods. “Lomo al Trapo, the main entrée. It is our chef’s specialty. Beef tenderloin cooked directly over hot coals while wrapped in a salt-covered cloth and served with a fresh chimichurri.”

“Which is…?”

“A sauce made from cilantro, parsley, garlic, and olive oil. The beef will be accompanied by golden baby potatoes roasted with herbs and coconut rice.”

“Which brings us to the salad. What does your chef usually serve with his?”

“I believe tonight’s salad will be made with hearts of palm, ripe avocados, and cherry tomatoes in a lime vinaigrette.”

“It all sounds wonderful,” I say. “You speak as if you have more than just run-of-the-mill culinary knowledge.”

Her face brightens. “I’ve always been interested in the culinary arts.” She then casts her gaze to the floor. “Unfortunately, my father doesn’t value higher education for women.”

I frown. “Yes, that sounds familiar. My grandfather doesn’t either. I, however, don’t share that philosophy.”

Her big eyes widen. “You don’t?”

“No, I don’t.”

She takes my hand delicately. “I understand you’re promised to a young lady back in Texas.”

“I am.”

Just the thought of Belinda being promised to me makes me nauseated. Not because I’m engaged to an eleven-year-old. That marriage will never happen. But because of what she’s going through—possibly this very moment—at the hands of her father.

“I am promised as well,” she says. “To Señor Vega.”

I stop my jaw from dropping. Vega must be in his sixties.

“I guess I just assumed he was already married.”

“He was. His first wife passed away eight years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

A staff member brings in the first course. “Wine, señor?” he asks me. “It’s Argentinian Malbec.”

“Yes, please.”

The staff member nods and fills my wine goblet.

I take a drink, letting the fruity wine glide over my tastebuds.

Daniela takes a second glass, clinking it to mine. “So tell me, Señor Gallo, what are your interests?”

She’s asking about my interests? That’s odd.

“My only interest here is making a deal work with your father and, apparently, your fiancé.”

She narrows her eyes. “I’d like to offer you my services.”

I nearly spit out the splash of wine in my mouth. “What do you mean yourservices?”

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