I know what it does when you turn your back on a threat.
I’m done turning my back.
I’m done being merciful.
Chapter 18
Darling
Miami at night is still hot. By the time I walk out of Vice Ink, Lady is long gone. Probably sent away by Shady.
Disco shifts on my shoulder, feathers brushing my neck, his talons gripping my dress strap like he can feel I’m not steady. He’s heavy for such a small body, all attitude and sharp little toes. I’m carrying his travel cage and keep the other hand near him without touching, like my fingers can protect him if my nerves decide to break.
“Tranquilo,” I whisper.
Disco answers like he always does, loud and dramatic, voice slicing through the night.
“¡Mami!” he squawks, then whistles a rude little tune like he’s scolding me for bringing him into chaos again.
I shouldn’t have come back here, but Disco has to eat. He needs to stretch his wings. But I know it the second I turn onto my block and the streetlights seem dimmer than they should. Little Havana is still awake. Somebody’s frying something two buildings over, the smell of grease and garlic drifting out on the humid air. A vent coughs up a ghost of cafecito. Somewhere nearby, a couple argues in Spanish like it’s a sport. Miami keeps moving.
My apartment building looks the same as it always does, beige stucco, a flickering porch light, a busted palm frond dragging itself across the sidewalk like a dead thing. The air feels wrong anyway.
I tell myself I’m being paranoid, that I’ve been living on adrenaline for weeks and it’s finally making me jump at shadows.
Then I see my door.
It’s closed. It should be closed. But the doorknob is turned just a little too far, like someone twisted it and let it go, and the latch never caught right.
My mouth goes dry so fast it hurts.
Disco lets out a sharp chirp that makes my skin prickle. “¡No!” he barks, like he knows before I do.
“Shh,” I whisper, because my voice is stupid and small and my hands are already shaking. I should run. I should back away and call Lady. I should go straight to Vice Ink and spit in Diablo’s face and tell him pride can rot when you’re scared.
I don’t.
I’m tired, and tired makes you reckless in the worst ways.
I climb the steps anyway, slow and quiet, like the hallway might bite. My keys are cold in my palm and I hold them like a weapon even though I know how useless they’d be against a man who already got in.
The moment I push the door open, the smell hits me so hard my eyes sting.
Rico.
Cheap cologne and sweat and that sour note of stale beer he always wore. Every bruise I ever wore lights up in memory.My muscles go tight. My breath turns shallow. My brain does the stupid thing it always does with him. It flashes the past like a warning sign, like if I remember enough I can dodge the hit.
“Rico?” I say anyway, because part of me still can’t accept he’s bold enough to sit in my life like a stain.
A shadow shifts in the living room.
Then he steps into the light like he owns it.
He’s sitting in my chair like he paid rent here. Like he belongs here. Like I never mattered enough to take anything from him except the effort of hurting me. His face is bruised but not enough, one eye a little swollen, his mouth split at the corner, his shirt wrinkled like he slept in it for days. There’s dried blood on his knuckles and he looks like he got dragged through hell and came out proud of it.
He smiles anyway.
“Baby,” he says, voice soft like poison. “There you are.”
