by Amarie Avant
From the crack in the doorframe, I see she has her hands atop her head.
“How could I be so stupid?” LeAnna’s shoulders drop, her convictions broken. She pauses right outside of the art room door.
Her scent teases me, pulling at effervescent memories, warming the pit of my abdomen.
Don’t step inside, mami. I will have to hurt you.
My heart skyrockets into my throat, lodging there. In a swift, silent move, I pull my serrated knife from the back of my jeans. Don’t fucking come in here, preciosa. I had a few things to train her on.
Confidence.
Calm her anxiety.
It would be hard to do without subduing her first.
“No, it is Dominic. He is . . .” LeAnna murmurs. Her fingertips are a fraction away from my chest as she flips the light switch. Darkness surrounds me.
Seconds later, the double doors to her bedroom close. I sheath my blade. My leather-clad hand glides across the glossed wall as I magnetize toward her.
A faint Cuban tune hums low in my chest.
Although her scent is already fresh from a shower, I hear the drone of water and cock my head. What are you thinking, LeAnna?
Was it his touch? Did it arouse you or disgust you enough to take a second shower tonight?
I palm the door, eyes closed, forehead against the ornate wood. She’s different than them.
I watched them. Saved them.
LeAnna’s musings led her to me. In her defense, she sought me, attempted to snare me. She almost got close, too close.
“You are crazy, beautiful,” I murmur against the closed door. “But unlike the others whose souls were restored, you will die for me. Sí, you will die tonight.”
Sorrow consumes me. My ángeles are alive, every single one of them. They were taught the ultimate devotion while leaving the vessels of their bodies. LeAnna is not them. Can’t be.
Unfortunately, she cannot be an ángel of mine. She will die tonight, and I cannot judge as to her final ascension or descent.
Chapter Ten
Dominic
The engine roars my wrath, but I drop my forehead against the steering wheel and give it a few taps.
“Fuck me,” I groan. My intentions were . . . bad. Once I laid eyes on the cat lady, who was more gorgeous than my wildest dreams, my motivating factor crumbled.
Aria expected the worst in me. Worse than I anticipated for myself as a niño. Worse than any action, which caused Mami to thrash me with a cup towel.
“El Santo,” I gasp, leaning back in the leather seat. I let off a stream of expletives in my native tongue. She’d brought out the worst in me. She’d made me choke on a fucking cancer stick after years of letting them go! Had made me disregard the law—breaking and entering. Shit, she makes me want to commit more crimes, for a taste of a body like that.
Now, Aria’s “no” echoes in my ear. She stared at me with that sultry gaze. The fear and embarrassment of being caught off guard had dissipated, and she wanted me. Then . . .
“El Santo?” I groan again. I zip the window of my Mercedes down and lean out for one glance.
It’s not necessary. Her thick frame embeds itself in my memory, the softness of her lips and hips. It doesn’t get any more real than that in Miami.
At the highest floor, a shadowed figure stands before the window, lacking Aria’s delicious curves. Did her roommate return with company?
I slide my hand into the inside of my custom leather jacket, removing my cellphone. But when I glance up again, the figure is gone.
“It’s her, Dom. Her paranoia is fucking with you. What were you gonna do anyway, save her from her loca self?”
Call her?
I press the gear into drive, swooping out of the parallel position. My tires smoke the pavement as I drive away.
I toss the phone. It lands onto the remaining background information Mitch provided. Drawn to Ms. Jones, I decide to finish the investigator’s profile on her as soon as I get home.
“Great, you’re spending the night reading. Mami would be happy,” I mutter, turning on the cappuccino maker.
At the marble waterfall island, I sit on the stool. But when the machine beeps indicating my drink is done, I’m too absorbed in Mitch’s vignette to stop.
“Jesus,” I murmur, skimming over how her fraternal twin was taken. The private investigator digs deep into my enemy’s pasts, offering triggers. In Aria’s case, Mitch struck a goldmine.
Her parents’ divorce, father’s death, and disownment by her mother are hard to digest. Her entire life is a weapon for an attorney like me—each facet a sharpened sword to penetrate my enemy. I’d feel like slime using it against her.
Aria has gone most of her life, not knowing what happened to her twin. Mine alienated himself from me after a tragedy that left him paralyzed from the waist down. At least, I still have my hermano gemelo, Dario.
My burning eyes skim over the information about Ms. Jones. I’ve never been so drawn to a woman in my life, and she hates me. Now, I want to go to her. Shake the unwarranted paranoia out of her. Teach her what living is like.
Chapter Eleven
Aria
I’m at the lowest of the low. Water pellets down like torrents of rain, masking the tears in my eyes. I’d scrubbed the desire, fear, and anxiety off my skin. Shoulders slumped, dejected, I step out of the lengthy shower and grab a towel.
For months, I thrived off reparations to ReAnna by the idea of saving the others. Now, my old besties, guilt and shame, we’re a clique again.
The fog’s still heavy, saving me from the sight of me. I can’t self-deprecate. I wipe the towel over my arms, legs, tormenting myself for the slight pudge here and extra thickness there.
Sucking in oxygen and captivating notes of spice, I shudder. The plush bath sheet falls to a heap at my feet. The smell is familiar. Roslyn dated a few Cubans, who blended their own cigarettes, but this scent, I recall from . . .
“Dominic,” I whisper, lips tensed. While I tailed him to the elevator about an hour ago, I had threatened to ruin him. He feigned confusion.
Next, I disabled the elevator’s ability to ascend to this level. Of course, I’ll have heat from Miranda when she calls at the crack of dawn since this is our private elevator.
How did he return?
The bastard is playing with me.
Hastily, I grab a fresh pair of underwear off the fur-top vanity stool. Then I slide into pajama shorts and a shirt. I reach for the kitchen knife. I gasp. It had been right beneath my clothing.
“It’s gone,” I murmur. Oh shit, why didn’t you call the cops, Aria?
A sob bubbles up my throat. Dominic got into my head. His threat of reaching out to the authorities painted me as a villain. He has at least one friend at the station, Officer Antonio Mejia. But at the sake of looking like a lunatic, I rush through the bathroom. Glossy gray cupboards slam against each other. Frantic, I toss around an obscene amount of hair mask, hair repair, and hair conditioner. African Pride, Mixed Chicks, Carol’s Daughter—I support them all. God, if I were saving my hair’s life, it’d survive!
What about me?
For a split second, a million eyes flash guilt into my tiny five-year-old face. What about ReAnna?
Gripping a flat iron, I cement myself in reality. I can’t focus on Re. Not now. I’m not ready to die and have the veil of uncertainty lifted. I wipe the tears off my face and arise. The unplugged flat iron weighs at my side. It’s one of those pointy, expensive styles Roslyn swore I needed, but never used.
I fist my weapon, prepared to jam it into Dominic’s massive chest. If I die, he dies.
I whip the door open, and the fog from my steamy shadow flees. My gaze tracks the bedroom. He killed the lights, but he will not kill me.
“You may think this has been the worst day of my life,” I grit out, voice grave. “You insulted me with breakfast. I went to the cops. Those bastards did nothing. But you entered my fucking sanctuary!”
Damn, this sound
s badass. Alright, Aria, no jumping with joy. Although, this was the person I should have been born into. With my shoulders squared, I press my back against the limestone walls. My fingertips search for the light switch.
“Like I said earlier, Dominic. I die, I have left a wealth of signs leading toward,” light floods the room, “you.”
My esophagus launches into my throat, and wild eyes track the area. My four-poster bed commands the center of the room. At the foot of it, are two love seats parallel to each other. Between them is a coffee table, scattered with photography books. I launch onto the balls of my feet, neck straining.
Nope. No big, bad wolf underneath the coffee table.
Behind the custom bed is a second office for occasions when I want to switch things up and not work in my art room or darkroom.
Rising to my tippy toes, I search around, damning myself for leaving the safety of my studio apartment. I press the flat iron close to my chest, clasped in both hands, ready to pitch his gorgeous face out of the ballpark.
My wild eyes burn from lack of blinking as I scan the area.
Too much room.
It’s all wide-open spaces, yet there are places for El Santo to hide.
The smart blinds are open. Early morning in Miami is creeping in. At the sound of my cellphone vibrating on the nightstand at the farthest side of the bed, I jolt.
The clattering is incessant.
My eyes sweep around the room, and I head over.
The name “Messy M,” flashes on the screen, over and over again. Miranda’s calling. My eyes narrow. I lick my lips. Beneath my phone is a strategically placed photo and, on the floor, ash from a Cuban cigarette.
I pluck up the photo, glowering at the striking colors. The vibrating begins again. I answer, growling into the receiver. “What?”
“My access code for my elevator is not working to bring me up to my home, Aria.”
“Our home,” I grit, diplomacy exhausted. “Earlier tonight, some kids were playing in the common elevators—”
“Snot-nosed little fucks have nothing to do with my home. Let me up, now.”
“Alright.” I click the off button. “Bitch.”
Clasping the photo in my hand, I head toward the security system near the elevator to reroute it. Before Miranda is on our floor, I slam the door to my bedroom and glare at the picture.
It’s not one of the many I’ve taken of him.
Why?
Chapter Twelve
Aria
“Do the cha-cha slide with Momma and Re. C’mon, LeAnna,” chimed in my ears.
We were all at the park. This year light blue shirts boasting the Lowe Jones family tree could be spotted miles away. Though, I faintly recalled last year being a different color.
It was a humongous park. ReAnna and I had gotten lost on the way to the restrooms after swiping more popsicles on the hot day. The first time, mom had gone with us. The second time, with our hearts racing and fear shining in our eyes, we found our way back. Through the fray of various parties, we had noticed the light-blue shirts our family wore.
“Dance with us, girl,” Momma cajoled, pulling and pushing my hands as if doing the twist.
Though the oldest, my cheeks burned. I was fatter than ReAnna too. Chubby, shy, and predestined for fault.
“Momma, I help Gram,” I said.
“Oh, you two are helping yourselves, alright, to more food.” My gorgeous mother pinched my cheeks. Dad called her over from the line.
They were sliding to the left . . . Sliding to the right.
In the heart of Little Havana is Domino Park, avoiding it while en route to Alvarez’s law firm is impossible. I’d tossed the photo he placed on my nightstand on the dashboard. It slides to the left as I bend the corner.
Today, El Santo goes down.
I’ll walk into his office, show him the image, then I’m headed straight to the police station.
One may ask, why not cut out the drama?
I spent months tailing Dominic. I want to see the shock flood his hypnotic gaze.
Today, I win!
A block away from the firm, my tires scream. A kid in a hoodie slams a hand onto the bumper of my car then jumps up the curb.
“Jesus,” I gasp.
I shake my head. He sprints through an alley, reaching up toward a brick wall. He’s climbed halfway up when his hand zips to his side. Clambering back down, he drops the hoodie. A mop of slick, dark hair obscures my view of his face as he lowers his head.
“Damn, I know the feeling, kid. All the walls around me are . . .”
My voice trails off. In slow motion, the teen glances back toward me.
“Hey!” I climb out of the car, recalling the smooth, bourgeoning El Santo-in training. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing, mami. ¡Vete!” The kid warns me to “go away,” spins around, and faces the wall. Did I see blood on his blue hoodie?
“Yasiel,” I recall his name. “How old are you? Shouldn’t you be at—”
“I said go, puta!” Yasiel screeches, heading toward the brick wall again.
An arm darkened by a multitude of tattoos wraps around my neck. It yanks me back so swiftly I bite my tongue. Another massive bicep curls around my arms, pinning them down.
“Let me go!”
Yasiel stops climbing up the wall. Head cocked, he seems to contemplate before he jumps down and spins around. Holding a hand to his side, he shouts, “Leave her alone!”
I’d been so focused on Yasiel that I didn’t notice that two SUVs had blocked my car in. More men surround us. Their accents are different, thicker . . . Colombian.
My fingernails chew into the forearms of the man holding me against him. My legs jostle into the air as he tugs me into an alley with Yasiel. While rushing toward me, another assailant slaps Dominic’s friend.
“I said, don’t touch her!” Yasiel snaps.
The kid has more nerve in his pinkie finger than I have in my entire, frozen body. I lack a voice to fight for myself.
The man holding me hisses, “You’re in the wrong neighborhood, puta!”
Yasiel spits, “This is my—”
My eyes widen as the other man slaps Yasiel again. They were chasing him.
“Tell your boss my boss wants his property back!” One guy kneels to an unflinching Yasiel.
Eyes aflame in defiance, the kid spits at him. His gumption revives me. I bite down on the Colombian’s arm. Seconds later, I’m drowning in darkness.
I awaken in a bright orange room, and my vision is blurred. The ceiling fan twirls vigorously, jumping to a rhythm. Worried green eyes come into view above my face. Half my mouth tips into a gnarly grin. My pounding head ruins the first genuine smile I’ve had in a while.
Only a select few people in this world regard me with such concern: Gramps, Siobhan, Shania, and Roslyn too.
Like a camera shutter, sliding into focus, a handsome face appears. I jolt into a seated position, swatting Dominic’s hand as he touches my shoulder. Charismatic—the thought pings into my mind. Serial killers are charming.
“Get away from me!” I growl. In less than a second, my eyes register all of him. Gold-plated chest muscles peek out the opening of his crisp linen shirt. Damn, the rest of the material glides smoothly across his shoulders and thick biceps. Stop it, Ari! Women have died following him.
“Ms. Jones, you were—”
“Assaulted,” I clip the word. “Drug dealers assaulted us.”
“Sí. The cops—”
“Because of you!”
“This is getting out of hand.” Dominic continues to cuss in Spanish beneath his breath, undoing another button. My eyes slink away from his chest. The magnetic pull to watch him starts to dissolve.
He’s also wearing tailored pants and shiny expensive shoes. I tell myself he’s not scrumptious. Hating him comes effortlessly once he calls me the unforgivable word in his native language.
“Call me crazy again. I dare you.”
I stand, and th
e world tilts, spinning, spiraling out of control. Placing a palm to my forehead, I step toward the bright light. I’ll choose the white light over El Santo.
Dominic growls in my ear, cursing under his breath, again mentioning how I was assaulted. I head toward the white light and bump into the screen door. He touches my arm.
“Wait, the police should be here soon.”
“Good! Tell them about the butterflies!”
“You are loca,” he snarls.
I yank the front door to his firm open and step outside. Stalking along the path toward the parallel parked cars, I argue over my shoulder. “Yeah? I’ll be crazy all the way to the po—”
“Mírame, por favor. Butterflies? Chula, you have a concussion!”
His argument spins me around, near the curb. “No, stop trying to paint me as some deranged, confused woman. And yes, butterflies. You searched my home again and found a photo of swallowtail butterflies.”
“What?”
“You damn sure know where you placed it, too, El Santo!”
Dominic’s gaze sparks with heated intensity. “Be rational, Aria.”
I jump back, out of his reach, a fraction away from falling off the curb. Moving into a wide-legged stance, in my peripheral, I notice cars sailing by. “I’m not arguing with you. I’m leaving.”
“Humor me.” He reaches for me again. Noticing I haven’t lost myself to his beauty, Dominic sighs, lowering his hands. In a deceptively mollified tone, he asks, “How do you know El Santo is Cubano and not another Latin race or white or black?”
“My friend’s, cousin’s ex—”
Dominic laughs. “Gossip!”
“Not gossip.”
“I’m not El—”
“You are. And you also almost got Yasiel murdered. What? Your drug dealer wants his payment?”
“My drug dealers,” he grits out, stepping toward me.
The tune of an ice cream truck turns on, beginning down the street. The melody mingles with the words being whispered in my ears.
