Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 80139 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80139 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
“Hide,” I say to Robin.
“What?”
“Hide. Now.”
“Cruz—”
“Now,” I say through gritted teeth.
Something in my voice must reach her because she moves. She steps back, scanning the room, and then darts toward the narrow space behind an old cabinet near the corner. It’s not enough.
“Take the back stairwell,” I hiss. “Go to one of the girls’ rooms.”
Then I move. Leave the room, head to the foyer.
Señora V is smoothing her dress as she reaches for the door.
“Wait!” I call.
She turns her head.
Her eyes meet mine.
For a moment, I see her as she was when I was fifteen. Strong. Beautiful. Untouchable. The woman who told me I was hers now to take care of.
She reaches for the knob.
“No!” I shout.
Too late.
The door opens.
A gunshot rings out. The sound is so loud in the foyer that it blanks everything out.
Señora Valentina jerks backward.
Not far.
Just a small, horrible movement.
Her hand flies to her chest. Her mouth opens. No sound comes out.
Then she collapses.
She falls onto the marble tile.
Time stops.
I see everything.
The red spreading across the front of her dress.
The way her dark hair loosens from its pins.
The tiny gold cross at her throat.
Her eyes, open and confused, as if even now she can’t believe what just happened.
My grandmother.
Not by blood.
Blood is nothing.
Less than nothing.
This woman fed me. Scolded me. Held my hand while my mother’s coffin was lowered into the earth. Called me mijo even when I didn’t deserve it.
And now she lies bleeding on the floor because of me.
Because I came back.
Because I brought Robin here.
A figure stands in the doorway.
Zabala.
Gun in hand, his face twisted with satisfaction and something worse. Triumph. He looks past Señora V’s body and smiles when he sees me.
“Moreno,” he says.
Red washes over my vision.
I don’t think about the gun he holds that could take my life as quickly as it took Señora’s.
I launch myself at him.
He lifts the gun, but I hit him before he can fire.
We crash backward through the open doorway and onto the front step. The gun goes off again, the shot cracking past my ear, close enough that I feel the heat. Pain flares along the side of my head, but I don’t care.
We hit the ground hard.
The gun skitters across the porch, clattering against the brick.
Zabala grunts beneath me and drives his fist into my ribs.
Once.
Twice.
Pain explodes through my side.
I slam my forearm across his throat.
“You killed her,” I snarl.
He bares his teeth. “You should have stayed loyal.”
I drive my fist into his face.
His head snaps to the side, blood spraying from his mouth.
He laughs. The sound is wet and ugly.
“Vega knew you’d come here,” he says.
I hit him again.
“Of course you would,” he spits. “Little whorehouse orphan.”
Something animal tears through me. I grab Zabala’s collar and slam his head against the porch.
Once.
Twice.
He bucks beneath me, stronger than I expect, twisting his hips and driving a knee into my stomach. Air leaves my lungs. He rolls, throwing me sideways.
My shoulder hits the floorboards.
He’s on me fast.
Zabala is as strong as he is cruel. I’ve seen him beat men for sport and smile while doing it. He doesn’t fight fair.
He goes for my eyes first.
I jerk my head back.
The punch lands on my throat.
I choke, vision flashing.
He stretches, trying to reach for the gun.
No.
I grab his ankle and yank.
He falls hard, chin cracking against the porch. The gun is three feet away. Maybe less. Too close.
I crawl over him, try to pin him down.
He twists, elbow slamming into my jaw.
Stars burst behind my eyes. For half a second, the world tilts.
Zabala gets a hand around my throat. “You were always soft,” he growls. “Adriana said it. Vega didn’t want to believe her.”
I grip his wrist with both hands, trying to pry him off.
Pressure builds in my skull.
“You liked pretending you were better than us,” he says. “But you were never better.”
My lungs burn.
His face hovers inches from mine, blood on his teeth, eyes dark with hate. “You just needed the right girl to make you stupid.”
Robin.
Her name slices through the red.
She’s still inside. Hiding.
Still alive.
The thought gives me the strength I need.
I slam my knee upward into Zabala’s ribs. He grunts but doesn’t release me. I do it again, harder, catching him lower. This time, his grip loosens.
I wrench my head sideways and suck in air, grappling for something, anything.
My hand finds something just inside the doorway.
Not the gun.
A broken piece of tile? No.
Holy shit. It’s a knife!
The small blade Señora V keeps hidden beneath the front table.
The table near the door had a loose underside. It’s one of many places Señora V kept weapons for use in moments like these. Typically they’re for when the girls’ clients get unruly. When I was a boy, she showed me where some of them were, not because she wanted me to use them, but because she wanted me to know that women who live among dangerous men learn where to hide things they might someday need. She reminded me of that when I first brought Robin here.