A fresh bolt of fear and fury slices through me. I grab the edges of my coat and tug them together, taking a step backward.
“Are you threatening me? Threatening them?”
A picture flashes in my mind. Massimo is making breakfast without his shirt on while Emilio stumbles around the kitchen with Paco strapped to his chest like a baby, both of them so stupidly, painfully earnest in the way they look at me.
Innocent and unaware of the dangers of my world, with my ex running wild in it. Even if he’s half their size, if he knows people, bad people, they could get harmed.
His lip curls, knowing he has the upper hand. Knowing he can hurt people I care about.
“Maybe I am. You’ve always thought you were better than me, Sofia.”
His mask cracks enough for the bitter man underneath to bare his teeth.
“Ever since you left the island. Ever since you started walking around in those scrubs like you’re saving the world. You think you’re better than everyone. But you’re still just the girl from the wooden house whose daddy left and whose mami raised her on arroz and prayers. You can’t change where you came from and what you are.”
The words land exactly where they aim, but they don’t bury themselves quite as deep as they used to. I have too many nights in the ICU now. Too many lives I’ve touched, too many shifts where I was the one who stood between life and death, and I have helped people make it through.
“I know where I came from. I’m proud of my roots. And unlike you, I still take care of those back home on the island. So, if anyone is trying to outrun where I came from and outrun what they are, it’s you.”
His eyes flick behind me, and I turn to look. Making sure there is no one when he rips my purse from my shoulder and rifles through it to find my wallet. I’m surprised and scared. Like watching an addict get violent in need of pills or their next hit. I know better than to intervene even if I’m tempted to beat his ass.
Let him get whatever he wants so I can make it back to my apartment safely.
“Ah, look what we have here?” He holds up a stack of cash. My rent money for the landlord. “You’ve been holding out on me. You are his sugar baby, else how did you get this much cash?”
The bills fan out when he waves them. I’m tempted to snatch them back. Hard-earned money, I forgot to drop it in the payment box this morning.
“Give it to me! It’s my rent money.”
I step forward, but he backs away. Slamming my purse to the ground. My phone falls out. The display shows Mami’s name, calling again. He sees it and sneers. Having gotten what he wants, he slithers away. A creepy smile crosses his face, but with the streetlight shining on it, it scares me more. He’s on something. I see it clearly now in the light.
My heart races, wanting to grab my money and grab my phone. Yet I’m stuck in place. Waiting for him to leave so I can react. If he’s drugged up and I move too fast, it could trigger something.
“Give my love to Mami, mi amor. See ya around.”
He turns and walks off. Like, he didn’t threaten my world, my guys, and everything I rebuilt once he left. I collapse to the concrete, gather my belongings, and fight back tears.
“I won’t get them involved. Not this time. I’ll handle it like I always do.”
CHAPTER 22
EMILIO
Five days of watching the Sox, beating Ryan’s ass at Grand Theft Auto, and listening to Mas mope around the house. That’s, like, thirty-five emotional years in Emilio time. I’m pretty sure my organs have started aging out of grief.
My heart shriveled up like a sad raisin. My brain is dust. Absolute dust. My angel hasn’t texted. Hasn’t responded to my dick pics or the video where Mas got pissed that I sent. Hasn’t even sent me a picture of my son, and it’s my custody weekend in two days. Actually, I should be getting him tomorrow since it is Thursday today.
I’m dying.
Massimo is dying too, except he dies quietly like a dramatic telenovela widow. Me? I die loud. VERY loud. He’s sitting on the couch now, staring at nothing with the intensity of a man watching his entire life circle the drain.
I swear the Red Sox are losing on purpose just to make it worse. His stubble is stubbly-er. His hair is messy. And he keeps sighing like he wants me to ask. When I do, he glares at me from those hollowed-out eyes with dark bags under them. He looks like that chick from that movie that looks like a raccoon.
I stand in the hallway, one crutch under my arm, my walking boot heavy as shit. I look at him. He looks at the floor for the trillionth time.
I clear my throat.
Nothing.
