Not here.
Not in my second-floor apartment that still smells faintly like Rico’s cheap cologne and burnt coffee.
A neighbor’s door across the hall cracks open. A pair of eyes peeks out, curious and nosy in the way apartment buildings train people to be.
I crack my door open a few inches.
“Yes?”
One of the men checks a tablet in his hand like he’s delivering to a hotel suite, not a woman who slept four hours after a shootout.
“Delivery for Darling Rivera.”
My stomach drops.
“I didn’t order anything.”
“It’s prepaid, ma’am.”
Ma’am.
The word makes my skin itch.
I open the door wider before I can stop myself, because some part of me already knows. Some part of me has known since the second Diablo’s voice told me to go home like he didn’t care.
They wheel everything inside like they are unloading a luxury suite instead of stepping over the scuffed tile of my tiny living room. The cart rattles softly across the floor as box after box appears.
Garment bags.
Shopping bags with thick rope handles.
Flat white boxes tied with satin ribbon.
Disco leans forward, crest lifting, eyes sharp.
“¿Qué es?” he demands, then whistles loud enough to pierce my skull. “¡Dale!”
The men move with the efficiency of people who do this kind of thing every day. In and out. No questions. No eye contact. Like they’re trained not to notice the bruises life leaves on people.
My heart starts pounding.
When they finally leave, the door clicks shut and my apartment goes quiet again except for the distant noise of Miami waking up. A car stereo thumps reggaeton down the street. Somebody yells in Spanish from a balcony. A siren fades somewhere toward the main road.
I stand in the middle of my living room surrounded by luxury like I’ve stepped into someone else’s life.
Disco whistles from his perch, then says, clear as day, “¡Qué fancy!”
I bark a laugh, sharp and disbelieving.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I know.”
I kneel and reach for the closest bag.
The designer logo printed across the front looks expensive enough to scare me.
My fingers tremble slightly as I open it.
Inside is a dress.
