Silk. Cream colored. Soft enough that it slides through my hands like water when I lift it out. The cut is sharp and deliberate, designed to hug curves I spent years hiding beneath baggy shirts and cheap denim.
The next bag holds heels.
Red bottoms.
The stiletto tips look sharp enough to kill a man.
Disco watches with the intense focus of a little old lady judging outfits at church.
“¡Mami rica!” he announces, loud.
“Oh my God,” I hiss, shooting him a look.
He bobs his head like he’s proud of himself.
“Diablo,” I breathe.
Of course it’s him.
Box after box reveals more. Lingerie wrapped in tissue paper. Bags that probably cost more than a month of rent. Blouses that smell faintly like expensive department stores and air conditioning. A soft robe that feels like it belongs in a hotel where nobody screams in the night.
The white ribbon box sits in the center of the pile like it knows it is important.
I open it carefully.
Jewelry glitters inside.
A diamond tennis bracelet catches the sunlight and throws tiny sparks across the ceiling. A pair of simple gold hoops rests beside it. A delicate chain with a tiny devil charm hangs in the center of the velvet lining.
My throat tightens.
There is no note.
Of course there isn’t.
That would require vulnerability.
Diablo doesn’t do notes.
He does statements.
He does ownership wrapped in pretty things.
A knock rattles the door again.
I freeze.
Disco screams, “¡No abras!” like he’s suddenly my mother.
I open it anyway.
A woman stands there in a crisp navy uniform dress, hair pulled tight into a perfect bun, posture so straight it makes me feel underdressed in my own apartment.
“Ms. Rivera?” she asks politely.
“Yes?”
“I have been hired to clean twice weekly and assist with errands.”
