Week seven. Ramirez called me to the warehouse.
Not the kitchen. The warehouse. I hadn't been in the warehouse since the first week. Ramirez calling me from the kitchen to the warehouse was a move that meant something, because nothing was random and nothing was casual and every summons was a signal.
I walked from the restaurant to the warehouse. Two blocks. I didn't rush. Rushing was what you did when you were scared, and I couldn't afford to look scared. So I walked the way Mateo Cruz walked, slow and heavy.
Ramirez was in the office. Not Camila's office. Ramirez's office, a room at the back of the warehouse with a metal desk and a window that looked out at the loading dock. The office smelled like cigarettes and coffee and the faint chemical smell I'd learned to recognize as product.
"Sit," Ramirez said.
