The two men carry it inside and leave without explanation.
I crouch beside it slowly and lift the lid.
Inside is a cage.
No.
It’s a mansion.
Chrome bars shine under the light. Natural wood perches twist across multiple levels. Hanging toys dangle from the top like carnival decorations. A tiny hammock swings gently when I touch it. A mirrored swing sits in the middle like a throne.
My eyes sting unexpectedly.
“Disco,” I whisper.
He hops along his old perch, crest up, suspicious as hell.
“You just upgraded, bebé,” I tell him, voice cracking on the last word.
Disco leans forward and says, “¡Dale!” then starts laughing in that weird cockatoo way that sounds like a tiny man losing his mind.
By noon the apartment barely looks like the place I woke up in.
Fresh flowers sit on the kitchen counter. The floors shine. My closet now holds more silk and satin than I have ever owned in my life. The air smells like lemons instead of fear.
And outside the window I can see the street like I’m watching a movie. Miami moving. People laughing. A kid on a scooter swerving around a pothole. A man at a ventanita handing out cafecito like it’s medicine.
My phone buzzes against the table.
Unknown number.
I know before I open it.
The same number that called once last night and hung up when I answered. The same silence that always follows him like smoke.
Diablo.
Three words appear on the screen.
You deserve better.
That’s it.
Three simple words.
I stare at the message until the screen dims.
Deserve better.
Better than what?
Better than Rico.
Better than bruises and shouting and doors slamming in the middle of the night.
Better than being dragged into Vice Ink like collateral damage.
Better than seeing Carmen straddling him after he claimed to love me.
