The door shuts behind her.
The room goes silent.
Outside, Miami keeps humming like nothing just shattered.
But I know better.
Because this time she didn’t just leave angry.
She left done.
And I don’t know if I can drag her back from that.
Chapter 11
Darling
The knocking starts at eight in the morning.
Not the polite kind that comes with patience and apology. The persistent kind that keeps hammering against the door like the person on the other side has no intention of leaving.
The sound drags me out of sleep one stubborn knock at a time.
Disco answers first.
My cockatoo shrieks from his perch in the corner like he’s personally offended by the concept of morning.
“¡Levántate!” he screams. “¡Buenos días! ¡Dale!”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, cracking one eye open.
Sunlight slices through the cheap blinds in thin white blades, turning the dust in my apartment into floating glitter. My head throbs like somebody is tapping a hammer against the inside of my skull. The air is already warm, already sticky, the kind of Miami heat that crawls in through the cracks and makes you feel guilty for breathing.
Gunshots.
The memory flashes through me before I can stop it. The rooftop. Screams. The bite of ocean wind carrying the smell ofgunpowder. Diablo’s arm wrapped around my waist, dragging me behind the bar while glass exploded around us.
And then his voice in his office.
“Go home.”
Like I’m a stray he fed too long.
I went to Lady’s first to get Disco. She didn’t want to bring me home, but I insisted. She finally gave in.
The knocking doesn’t stop.
Disco flaps his wings once and shouts, “¡Policía!” like he’s announcing a raid.
“Not the cops,” I mumble, dragging myself out of bed.
My feet hit the floor and the cool tile shocks me more awake than the hangover ever could. I shuffle toward the door wearing nothing but an oversized T-shirt that barely covers my thighs. I frown when I realize it’s probably Diablo’s, left over from years ago when we were happy. My mascara is probably smudged from crying half the night. I reach up into a bird’s nest. My hair feels like it fought a hurricane and lost.
The knocking comes again. Louder.
I lean forward and peer through the peephole.
Three men in matching black polos stand in the hallway beside a rolling cart stacked with boxes. Real boxes. Thick cardboard with glossy logos stamped across the sides. The kind of packaging that belongs in penthouses and boutique storefronts.
