My brain is seriously extra twisted.
“Get out of my home. You have no right to be here.”
He raises his hands where I can see them after putting the lock picking kit on the table beside the door—right next to my keys. It’s as though he’s dropping his next to mine.
Honey, I’m home.
He could reach for his own gun, but he doesn’t. He could reach for however many knives I’m certain he carries, but he doesn’t. It’s as though his sheer aura can command me to give in.
Nope.
“Flora, whe?—”
“We are not friends.”
“Florencia, whether or not you come with me, you need to get out of here. There were men watching your place.”
“Were? You killed them.”
I don’t know why the first part was a question since the second part proves I already know the answer.
“Would you have preferred they kill you? You didn’t shoot me the moment I opened the door. If I’d wanted you dead, I would’ve shot you before you knew who was on the other side. They would have too.”
Rather than respond, I lift my arms to aim the gun at his forehead rather than his heart. I flip the safety off. His hands drop as he shakes his head.
“Chiquita, that safety should’ve been off the moment you heard the doorknob twist.”
Rather than believe I’m one step closer to killing him, he steps toward me. I wrap my finger tighter around the trigger without squeezing it. He takes another step.
“You have more confidence in yourself than you should, Pablo. No matter how fast you can draw your gun or flick open your knife, I’ll still be quicker.”
“Put the gun down, Flora, before you hurt yourself. I will take it from you, but that risks you getting shot.”
“More likely I’ll shoot you if you take another step toward me.”
“And then what? The men in my family won’t kill you, but the women will. If you’re as smart as I believe you are, you’ll understand how much worse that will be than facing mytíos,papá, orprimos.Mamáand mytíaswill hunt you to the ends of the Earth, drag you back to their den, then feast on you like a pack of she-wolves. It won’t be a quick kill.Mamá’salways been overprotective.”
The story about how Margherita defended her sons comes to mind. Getting a hint of what histíaLuciana did to the men who carried out the hit on her husband doesn’t ease the sudden bolt of fear that courses through me. I know nothing about histíaCatalina, but I’m certain she must be like her sister Luciana. I’ve heard speculation that his newesttía—Enrique’s wife—is the worst of them all. That her family is Mafia in America and that she’s been a gun for hire before. It could just be a rumor, but something Humberto said a few weeks ago makes me think it’s not just conjecture.
“You’re considering what I said. You know your life is forfeit if you move a single hair on my head. Put the gun down, Flora.”
“I didn’t invite you into my home. You don’t give me orders. Leave.”
“Chiquita, pack what you need for the next week. If you don’t have somewhere safe to go, I will find you somewhere.”
“And why should I believe you? Why should I think you’re any more trustworthy than yourtío abuelo?”
A wall drops between us, even if I can’t see it or touch it. I sense when it slams to the ground. I’ve deeply insulted him by comparing him to Humberto. While his outward demeanor doesn’t shift, I know I’ve made a grave error.
“Choose, Flora. Get your stuff and walk out of here on your own, or refuse me, and I’ll carry you over my shoulder. If I have to do that, I’ll spank you.”
“You are unreal. No.”
No one calls me Flora, yet he insists upon it as though we’re friends.
He moves faster than I expect. He surges toward me, and I raise the gun on instinct rather than shoot him. Any other man outside my family, and I’m confident I would’ve pulled the trigger. I have no fear of taking someone’s life. I haven’t done it, but I’ve come close.
I don’t want to shoot Pablo.
