DIABLO INSIDE

by Amarie Avant

  For the next hour, I sip champagne during a press-release event for the smoothie bar. Still frazzled, I grab champagne flutes anytime my boss, Jack, isn’t around. As he stands at the head of the chic health bar with the owner, my cellphone pings on the metal tabletop.

  At the sight of Dominic’s text about “being in the area,” a smile christens my face, and I quietly head toward the exit. Outside, the air is stuffy. I chew my lip, torn between the games we play while out and about, and my surfeit of emotions. I meander toward the entrance past sunbaked flesh and muscled surfers.

  I catch sight of him, and a hapless smile burns rampant across my face. Nothing can stop the thrill enticing my veins. He’s wearing jeans and a black button-up, cuffed upward, displaying his muscular forearms.

  Though he looks delectable, I lack the craving for the hardcore screw I hungered while texting him. Today, I want him—all of him with all of me. I drop the handle of my rollaway and ease up to my tippy toes to taste his mouth. The delicious, spicy flavor of a freshly rolled cigarette is on his tongue, disguised by mint.

  “You’re still smoking, baby. Worst habit ever.”

  He stares at me, gorgeous green, golden gems in the sunlight, captivating me.

  “I don’t want anything to ever happen to you, Dom.” I press my lips against his again, hoping my affection is enough temptation for him to cease the bad habit. Though, it’s not a nasty habit that smells like the bottom of an icky ashtray. Damn, the taste of it is quite addicting. I deprive my lungs of air while tasting his sexy lips again. “Will you try to stop smoking, for me?”

  “For you, mami.” His lips are a breath away. “I’d do anything.”

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  El Santo

  Months have passed. Each time I return home and offer gordita a meal replacement, she stares at me, scorn abounding in her dark eyes. She’s silently waiting for LeAnna’s death and for me to grant her a stay of the same fate. So far, I’ve made all the moves in my relationship with LeAnna. Until today. Albeit sent to Dominic, her text message was a signal to me. She values our time together, which has made me reluctant to crush her life in the palms of my hands. But when I do, I will still have Angelica. Her demeanor, though resistant, compels me not to let her go.

  “Aria,” I say the name she gave herself, wriggling my jaw.

  She presses her hands against my chest. “What is it? Is it a case? Or your family? When we’re together, you don’t smoke. I don’t like it, Dom. Are you worried about something?”

  She says the wrong name. I insert the correct one into my psyche. She’s pleading with me not to smoke? To live healthy?

  “Bad habits are difficult to break.” I pull her close, clasping her ass. “You’re a bad habit, mami. No letting you go, though. Maybe I’ll break you?”

  She laughs as I nip her bottom lip. “You do enough breaking me during our outings. Not today, okay?”

  Why not today? The sex curves my appetite. It calms the beast, or the Saint, rather.

  I could take LeAnna now, begin the process. But she rises on her tippy toes. “Dominic, stop with the broodiness. Today has been bizarre.”

  “What?” I deadpan. It’s just like Alejandra. Alejandra used to tell me about her days in high school. I listened to her complain about a physics teacher. In college, she praised her favorite professors. I knew them all by name. She had an issue at work; I was the troubleshooter. I loved her unconditionally. I gave her all she wanted, needed, dreamt of.

  With Carlotta, it took a while, but the same process began to ensue. Now, LeAnna stares up at me. The look on her face begs me to be all she ever needed. Are you using me, LeAnna?

  “Someone parked directly behind me when the entire back row was empty. The person opened the door, then sped off at the same time an acquaintance called out to me.” LeAnna searches my gaze with her chocolate orbs. “The bumper hit me—”

  “What car? Who hit you?” I grip her arms.

  “It was a little tap—”

  “Who was in the car?” I growl, a bevy of old, intense feelings threatening to drown me. “Did you get the license? What make and model, tell me, mami.”

  Is she lying? Cracking through my defenses . . . In survival mode like Angelica was the day she suggested I murder LeAnna instead?

  My eyes cruise over LeAnna. During cases where I cracked through firewalls and assisted the precinct with finding murderers and other assailants, I learned to read people.

  LeAnna is telling the truth.

  I grip her rollaway, hefting it off the ground, and grab her arm. I quickly guide her toward a lobster bar.

  “I’m okay.”

  “You’re not!” I grit, blood rushing through my veins. Nobody fucks with my ángeles. Dario, are you saying this puta is your ángel?

  Truth rings in my ears. LeAnna is mine. She is mine to mend and to break, to cleanse.

  I mutter, “Let’s, um, order something to eat, mami. Calm you down, sí?”

  Fuck, calm me down, more like it. If anyone is murdering LeAnna Jones, a.k.a. Aria Jones, I’m the cabrón to do it!

  LeAnna claims a wooden table at an outdoor lobster stand while I order us sandwiches. With the food on a tray, my long limbs slide into the seat. She opens her lobster roll, but stares at it, still shaken. Dominic would know how to interact with her. He excels at the art of manipulation. I’m a guarded motherfucker, who doesn’t give his heart away. Not anymore. I save the others who have made that mistake and cleanse them of it. Mi ángeles know not what they do.

  “This was a nice spot when I worked for—” I sip my drink. The intention to be more personable almost gets me caught up.

  “You worked for?”

  “Ahem, I was an assistant at a legal firm in law school.” I envision Dominic’s life instead of my own. In truth, the police department isn’t too far from here. I used to visit with a couple of the guys or ordered takeout.

  “Haven’t been here since.” I reach out, take her hands. “You were shaken. What happened, mami?”

  “I was parking earlier. I pulled in to make it easier to drive away. This car parked behind me. It felt strange.”

  Damn, I wasn’t able to leave the house this morning. Dominic had a late start. “What happened next?”

  “The car door swooped open. Like I said, a woman I worked with called out to me, and the driver bumped into me while pulling out.”

  “Did you get a good look at the car or the person?” Who did this? They’re dead!

  “It was a two-door, dark blue BMW.”

  I fight the smile attempting to play at my lips. The same pendejo who I caught watching LeAnna and Dominic leave the salsa club has returned to the same antics.

  A desire to protect overcomes me. I try to shake the foreign feeling, territorial. No cabrón touches my possessions. This is Alejandra all over again. These are all the mistakes I ever made with Carlotta too.

  “I’m okay,” she murmurs, tiny hand lost in my own. “You’re so tense. What happened to calling me mujer loca?” She gives my hand a little squeeze.

  “You are not crazy, chula,” I grit the name Dominic calls her. I’m not a fan of nicknames, or Aria either.

  I prefer honesty. I want to look in LeAnna’s eyes and declare that whoever is fucking with her is dead. “No games, Aria. You’re safe with me. Don’t you ever wonder if someone means you harm.” Like the man whose throat I slit.

  Gripping her hips, I slide her into my lap. The excess of her skirt bunches around her waist.

  “Dom—”

  “Shhhh.” My palms run along her darker thighs. “I won’t break you, Aria. Not with all these people staring.”

  “Later,” she murmurs, lashes fanning upward, gaze sparkling into mine.

  “That’s a promise.” I clasp her chin. “Don’t mention this ever again. I’ll find who scared you.”

  She stares at me.

  Though my goal is to cut the chance of LeAnna bringing up this story to Dominic. It may have come out sound
ing more like, “I’ll find the motherfucker and kill ‘em.”

  All true.

  Her mouth tips into a smile. “I thought I loved it when you popped up and screwed me madly. I lo . . . I love this. You being here for me.”

  This time, LeAnna doesn’t insert the wrong name. No Dominic. So, I supplement her comment with my own.

  “I love this, Dario. You being here for me.”

  Through new lenses, I stare at my hermano’s shiny treasure, lacking a desire to taint her. How the fuck do I make Dominic pay for stealing Alejandra now? Is it enough to make LeAnna mine forever . . . to protect and not mold her vessel into a bloody pulp called retribution?

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Aria

  A popcorn kernel bounces off my arm. Chuckling, I swipe chili-red nail polish across Roslyn’s toes and bound to my feet. The step stool we’d taken turns sitting on while painting each other’s nails topples over.

  “Puta!” She laughs, a fistful of kettle corn flies from her hands, sailing across her apartment living room.

  In my haste to retreat, I duck-walk around a secondhand coffee table that we painted turquoise.

  She grabs more edible ammunition from the popcorn bag. “What did you do?”

  “Hey, my toes!” I snap, reaching down to grab a tiny popcorn sticking to the light pink paint on my toenail.

  Humor dances in Roslyn’s gaze as she looks up at me from her lumpy futon. “You said you did the unthinkable, Ari’. What did you do?”

  Hands on my hips, I sigh. “Alright, I almost told Dominic I love him.” I settle beside Roslyn.

  “Oye, mama, felicidades!”

  “Congrats?”

  “Sí! Half the chicas who claimed they jumped his dick admitted to the same no-no. Also, are you aware how many times some of those putas told me they . . .” She stops abruptly, grimacing. “Sorry.”

  Leaning my head back, I sigh. “I get it. I’m dating a reformed manwhore.”

  Roslyn plucks the nail polish remover from the side table and dabs cotton swabs. I mutter my appreciation as she hands one over, then fixes the excess polish on her toes.

  “It’s nothing, Aria. Dominic is a big, fucking dick, which is a good thing. You’re in love with an attractive dick. Better than kissing a frog, chica. So, kiss that dick, bounce on it, learn a few tricks for a future hubby. Throw the dick away. He’s your Francisco. Your free ultimate dildo with all the buttons.”

  “I don’t want him to be my Francisco. I don’t wanna gain five pounds each instance he storms into my life, snatches me up, and throws me away.”

  “Ahem, that right there was a dig, mija.”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “I throw Francisco away on occasion. Not the other way around,” she says, finishing her last coat of red polish and gesturing for me to place my feet into her lap.

  “It’s more than the sex, Roslyn. He’s so mysterious.”

  “Even after the first nut?” She arches a brow. “C’mon, one good grunt, and you know pretty much what a man is all about.”

  I laugh. “We have these moments where we’re bantering—”

  “This isn’t a rom-com. It’s an all-inclusive trip to the dick.”

  “Or when we’re screwing slow, passionate—”

  “Sí, mami. D-i-c-k!” she chants.

  “Stop the madness. I’m determined to be more than his next fleeting addiction. Hell, we’ve been going strong for almost three months.”

  “Me and Antonio, too,” she murmurs.

  “Who?”

  “Uniform. The future hubby I’ve learned all my surfboard moves for. Keep up,” Roslyn retorts, putting the finishing touches on my freshly painted toes.

  “Am I losing my mind? Wasn’t Francisco at salsa night, after said mention of uniform-lover?”

  “Eh, I made a mistake.” She shrugs.

  “Humph! Next subject. I need your mom’s chile relleno breakfast casserole recipe.”

  “Damn, it’s like that, Aria? Have the man say he loves you over breakfast in bed. My mommy’s recipe is like coercion. Bring me some. I’ll declare my love to you a million times. Matter of fact, make enough for my uniform boo.”

  “No and no.” I swat at her. “Though tempting, I’d rather Dom say the L-word when ready. Breakfast is how I’d like to show my gratitude to him; he always cooks. So, may I have the recipe?”

  “Are you trying to get me murdered? El Santo is overdue for another hot Latina, but I fear my mami more! Why didn’t you ask her?”

  “Just got the idea, but it takes time and dedication to butter up your mom. I need at least a week of compliments and gifts. Ros, he’s not a walking dildo.” I protest. “He’s more. We’re dynamic together.”

  “I’ll go dig through my kitchen drawer. Mami threatens to boil me alive for not putting her beloved recipes in some cutesy keepsake.”

  “Find it, Ros.”

  “Oye! I am.” She rises off the couch. I grab the remote to flip on the television when her cellphone rings.

  “Speaking of uniform,” Roslyn says giddily. “Antonio, baby.” She talks into the screen. “I can’t meet with you right now. My bestie’s here.”

  I stop skipping through channels when Roslyn pushes her phone with FaceTime up in my line of vision.

  “Uh, hi,” I begin, my eyes land on a familiar face. “You!”

  Officer Antonio Mejia says something inaudible.

  “You know him?” She takes the phone, holding it down to the side of her mouth. “How?”

  “He’s an asshole.”

  “I’m not!” he argues.

  Roslyn raises the phone to her face. “I have to go.”

  As she hangs up, I roll my eyes. “Ros, you could’ve kept talking to him. He’s like Dominic, right? We’ll move on soon, right?”

  “No!” Roslyn sits back down. “You like Dom. I like him. Antonio has potential.”

  I level a gaze at her.

  “I’ve come clean to Antonio about my mistake with Francisco. So, please don’t tell me Antonio is a real pendejo! Tell me he’s a good guy.”

  Folding my arms, I mutter, “He’s Dominic’s friend—”

  “Like trade putas? Cover for—”

  “I don’t know, Ros. You were shit-talking Dom.”

  “Then explain, Aria!”

  I quickly share our first encounter, and then the day Dominic and I spoke to Detective Peachy.

  “Aria, you thought Dominic was El Santo?”

  “Yes!” I create more of a delicate state of mind by sharing how I’ve stalked him.

  “Escúchame, Ari’. You’re my girl, but I’m giving Antonio another ch—Where’s the remote? Turn this up. Turn it up.”

  “What?” I reach down to grab the remote wedged at my side, staring at Roslyn’s teary gaze. I increase the volume as a full-figured Latina appears on the screen. She’s been missing for almost three months.

  “Aye Dios, why can’t they find her? Why won’t they find El Santo?!”

  I rub Roslyn’s shoulder.

  “Angelica is Puerto Rican—met her first at my prima’s quinceañeras. She’s good people.”

  “Wow, I saw a social media post on Angelica’s disappearance weeks ago. But they’re not sharing anything new. It sounds like bait to keep viewers’ attention, Ros, and then segue into El Santo. God, I’m tired of hearing the psycho’s name. These damn newscasters are itching for him to claim another life.”

  At the mention of the serial killer, Roslyn frowns. “When you stalked Dominic, you asked me about the connection between Cubans and butterflies. Did you ever find out?”

  “No,” I mutter. “I promised not to meddle, Ros. He was pissed about my attempts, said it wasn’t safe.”

  “He has a point.” She waves her hand away. “But I’m done giving a fuck about what a man says. Women are the ones being attacked. Lemme grab my notebook.”

  I cock a brow. Roslyn’s always kept two little black books since high school. One to document thoughts o
n the men who had crossed paths with her. The other was an extensive vendetta list, filled with details. Once Roslyn finds her journal, we search YouTube for any conspiracy theories and profiles on El Santo. My friend and I work late into the night, hardly making a dent into the hysteria surrounding the mysterious serial killer.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  El Santo

  The day Carlotta sped away from the salsa club, I searched relentlessly for her. I had tapped into satellite data from when her BMW sped through a yellow light before I could pursue her. My breach of the Miami traffic cameras ended fruitlessly when she’d taken a lesser road leading out of the city. Then I’d gathered the cellphone data of her familia, attempting to use others to flush her out.

  She disappeared off the face of the planet and hadn’t used a single credit card since. A month ago, her BMW was tagged for repossession. Around the same time, I learned her last paying gig was a live-in. By the time I found her latest address, she had completed her assignment.

  Today, LeAnna’s statement about a BMW stunned me. Why had Carlotta followed her? After leaving the pier, I completed the same thorough review of traffic surveillance, searching for a BMW fitting Carlotta’s description flee the parking lot.

  Bingo. This time, Carlotta’s final destination was in my clutches. Now, under the cloak of darkness, I place my Glock into the waistband of my belt. I slide out of the driver seat, then quietly close the door to my ride. I peer down the narrow driveway. Tall trees obstruct the view of the townhomes on either side.

  Soundlessly, I head toward the front door. The home’s rented by a fifty-seven-year-old named Benjamin Larson. No familia connection. Presumably, he’s a sugar daddy to Carlotta and the reason the DMV lacks an updated address for her.

  Light descends from a bulb above the porch. I pop the collar to my bomber jacket as the door opens.

  Larson, identifiable by his DMV photo, pushes his eyebrows together. “What do you want at this time of—?”