I saw her kill a man on a Thursday.
Not with her hands. Camila Rodriguez didn't use her hands. She used her voice, the way generals use orders, the way judges use gavels, the way women who have built empires on fear use the one weapon that never dulls and never misses. She used her voice, and the voice said three words, and three words were enough.
It happened in the kitchen. I was at the prep station, cutting peppers, head down, invisible, the way I'd been for five weeks. The lunch rush had ended. The kitchen was quiet. Eduardo was in the office, doing whatever Eduardo did in the office when the lunch rush was over, and I was alone on the line with two other prep cooks who were cleaning their stations and talking about a soccer game.
