Frank spits and sputters, “Didn’t hear any damn message—got the Guild up top, can’t listen to everything.” He lurches back to his hole, still muttering.
I set my rifle case in the cabinet, lock it up. “Sorry mi amigo didn’t tell you. Had to deal with some uninvited guests—fast.”
Saint eases, just a fraction. “See anything good with that today?”
I grin, grabbing a bottle of water, draining half before I answer. She’s watching. I notice her watching and she knows it. She rolls her eyes and looks away with a huff.
“Gave our regards to the Texan.”
That gets her attention. “Kill him?”
I shake my head, savoring the tease. “Just said hello.”
“Well, that’s unfortunate.” She uncrosses her arms andputs her hands on her hips. “Well, I’m not eating another crumb of food from this cesspool, so…” She lets the sentence hang. I get it. She wants out as badly as I do.
Saint James in a dress is a sight I could savor without complaint. Not here, not in this hole, but outside under real lights, music in the air, my arm around her waist where everyone can see. She deserves more than rot and shadow.
“Care for any company?” I step in close, voice dropping, finger tracing the dip of her top where it threatens to slip toward her breast. My head lowers, drawn in, almost brushing her mouth with mine. I want her out there—dancing, smiling, lit up by more than bare bulbs and bad memories. Even if it’s just for a few hours.
She turns away, and I pull back, swallowing the sting. “We’re not a good idea,” she says. “We had an itch. We scratched it. We can’t let it happen again.”
An itch.
I nod, hiding what I feel. “As you wish, Pícarita. But I must ask… Are you ever going to trust me, Saint?”
She holds my gaze, unblinking. “Not sure if that’s possible.”
I force a shrug, glance around, act like it doesn’t stab. “Well, can you at least tolerate me for a meal? I know a place we can go.”
She crosses her arms again, chin high. “Do they serve anything other than noodles or pickled fingers?”
I let a real laugh slip through. “Much better. You’ll see.”
She nods. That’s as close as I’ll get to yes. “Okay then. Give me ten minutes.” I disappear into the bathroom, the rush of the shower drowning out whatever else she mightsay.
We wade through a sea of bodies, pressed tight by the crush of the covered market. Everything smells like cumin, roasted meat, sweat, and perfume—no inch of air unclaimed. Alejandro leads, moving with the kind of confidence only someone raised on chaos can pull off. He turns sideways, slipping between two women arguing over oranges, then glances back at me with a smirk, a wink. He holds his hand out.
I take it. His palm is warm—steady. I catch the sharp bite of his cologne, some expensive blend undercut with sweat and gun oil, all tangled up in the heat of his skin. He pulls me through the crowd with practiced ease, never hesitating, never letting go.
The market is a maze, but he navigates like he was born in it, weaving us through stalls and tight alleys until we duck through a plain metal door. On the other side, the world shifts: we cut through a kitchen, the staff hardly looking up. One guy on the grill gives Alejandro a nod, grease-slicked spatula tapping the counter. Alejandro returns it with the ghost of a smile.
A second door swings open and we’re somewhere else entirely. Overhead, strings of yellow lights web the air, casting everything in a forgiving glow. Music thumps, layered with laughter and the rise and fall of voices. Bodies press and twist on a makeshift dance floor in the center; a bar glows at the far corner, crowded with regulars and newcomers alike. Tables dot the shadows, high and low, everyone draped in the easy pleasure of a night unburdened by consequence.
Alejandro leans in, voice pitched low for my ears only. “We’ll be safe here. Try to enjoy yourself tonight.”
I arch a brow. “I’ve got a knife strapped to my thigh.”
His smile is all sin, white teeth and promise. The devil himself would fall to his knees right there.
He leads me to the bar, orders two shots of tequila, sliding one toward me. “To not being dead yet.”
I raise one eyebrow, glass to my lips. “Yet.”
We eat. We talk. We drink. The table fills with little plates—gambas al ajillo, pulpo a la gallega, crispy patacones on the side. The best paella de mariscos I’ve ever had in my life. Alejandro orders everything in rapid Spanish, laughing with the bartender. I stick to seafood and vegetables; no land meat, but I’m not above devouring half the shrimp on the table. He keeps the plates coming and refills my glass whenever it’s empty.
“How do you know this place is Guild-free?” I ask, spearing a grilled octopus tentacle, pretending it’s not the best thing I’ve tasted in months.
He grins. “My cousin’s back in the kitchen. There are little pockets everywhere the Guild doesn’t know exist. This—” He gestures at the strung lights, the crowd, the music—“this little piece of paradise, hidden behind three buildings, is one of them.”
