Aria has gone most of her life, not knowing what happened to her twin. Mine alienated himself from me after a tragedy that left him paralyzed from the waist down. At least, I still have my hermano gemelo, Dario.
My burning eyes skim over the information about Ms. Jones. I’ve never been so drawn to a woman in my life, and she hates me. Now, I want to go to her. Shake the unwarranted paranoia out of her. Teach her what living is like.
Chapter Eleven
Aria
I’m at the lowest of the low. Water pellets down like torrents of rain, masking the tears in my eyes. I’d scrubbed the desire, fear, and anxiety off my skin. Shoulders slumped, dejected, I step out of the lengthy shower and grab a towel.
For months, I thrived off reparations to ReAnna by the idea of saving the others. Now, my old besties, guilt and shame, we’re a clique again.
The fog’s still heavy, saving me from the sight of me. I can’t self-deprecate. I wipe the towel over my arms, legs, tormenting myself for the slight pudge here and extra thickness there.
Sucking in oxygen and captivating notes of spice, I shudder. The plush bath sheet falls to a heap at my feet. The smell is familiar. Roslyn dated a few Cubans, who blended their own cigarettes, but this scent, I recall from . . .
“Dominic,” I whisper, lips tensed. While I tailed him to the elevator about an hour ago, I had threatened to ruin him. He feigned confusion.
Next, I disabled the elevator’s ability to ascend to this level. Of course, I’ll have heat from Miranda when she calls at the crack of dawn since this is our private elevator.
How did he return?
The bastard is playing with me.
Hastily, I grab a fresh pair of underwear off the fur-top vanity stool. Then I slide into pajama shorts and a shirt. I reach for the kitchen knife. I gasp. It had been right beneath my clothing.
“It’s gone,” I murmur. Oh shit, why didn’t you call the cops, Aria?
A sob bubbles up my throat. Dominic got into my head. His threat of reaching out to the authorities painted me as a villain. He has at least one friend at the station, Officer Antonio Mejia. But at the sake of looking like a lunatic, I rush through the bathroom. Glossy gray cupboards slam against each other. Frantic, I toss around an obscene amount of hair mask, hair repair, and hair conditioner. African Pride, Mixed Chicks, Carol’s Daughter—I support them all. God, if I were saving my hair’s life, it’d survive!
What about me?
For a split second, a million eyes flash guilt into my tiny five-year-old face. What about ReAnna?
Gripping a flat iron, I cement myself in reality. I can’t focus on Re. Not now. I’m not ready to die and have the veil of uncertainty lifted. I wipe the tears off my face and arise. The unplugged flat iron weighs at my side. It’s one of those pointy, expensive styles Roslyn swore I needed, but never used.
I fist my weapon, prepared to jam it into Dominic’s massive chest. If I die, he dies.
I whip the door open, and the fog from my steamy shadow flees. My gaze tracks the bedroom. He killed the lights, but he will not kill me.
“You may think this has been the worst day of my life,” I grit out, voice grave. “You insulted me with breakfast. I went to the cops. Those bastards did nothing. But you entered my fucking sanctuary!”
Damn, this sounds badass. Alright, Aria, no jumping with joy. Although, this was the person I should have been born into. With my shoulders squared, I press my back against the limestone walls. My fingertips search for the light switch.
“Like I said earlier, Dominic. I die, I have left a wealth of signs leading toward,” light floods the room, “you.”
My esophagus launches into my throat, and wild eyes track the area. My four-poster bed commands the center of the room. At the foot of it, are two love seats parallel to each other. Between them is a coffee table, scattered with photography books. I launch onto the balls of my feet, neck straining.
Nope. No big, bad wolf underneath the coffee table.
Behind the custom bed is a second office for occasions when I want to switch things up and not work in my art room or darkroom.
Rising to my tippy toes, I search around, damning myself for leaving the safety of my studio apartment. I press the flat iron close to my chest, clasped in both hands, ready to pitch his gorgeous face out of the ballpark.
My wild eyes burn from lack of blinking as I scan the area.
Too much room.
It’s all wide-open spaces, yet there are places for El Santo to hide.
The smart blinds are open. Early morning in Miami is creeping in. At the sound of my cellphone vibrating on the nightstand at the farthest side of the bed, I jolt.
The clattering is incessant.
My eyes sweep around the room, and I head over.
The name “Messy M,” flashes on the screen, over and over again. Miranda’s calling. My eyes narrow. I lick my lips. Beneath my phone is a strategically placed photo and, on the floor, ash from a Cuban cigarette.
I pluck up the photo, glowering at the striking colors. The vibrating begins again. I answer, growling into the receiver. “What?”
“My access code for my elevator is not working to bring me up to my home, Aria.”
“Our home,” I grit, diplomacy exhausted. “Earlier tonight, some kids were playing in the common elevators—”
“Snot-nosed little fucks have nothing to do with my home. Let me up, now.”
“Alright.” I click the off button. “Bitch.”
Clasping the photo in my hand, I head toward the security system near the elevator to reroute it. Before Miranda is on our floor, I slam the door to my bedroom and glare at the picture.
It’s not one of the many I’ve taken of him.
Why?
Chapter Twelve
Aria
“Do the cha-cha slide with Momma and Re. C’mon, LeAnna,” chimed in my ears.
We were all at the park. This year light blue shirts boasting the Lowe Jones family tree could be spotted miles away. Though, I faintly recalled last year being a different color.
It was a humongous park. ReAnna and I had gotten lost on the way to the restrooms after swiping more popsicles on the hot day. The first time, mom had gone with us. The second time, with our hearts racing and fear shining in our eyes, we found our way back. Through the fray of various parties, we had noticed the light-blue shirts our family wore.
“Dance with us, girl,” Momma cajoled, pulling and pushing my hands as if doing the twist.
Though the oldest, my cheeks burned. I was fatter than ReAnna too. Chubby, shy, and predestined for fault.
“Momma, I help Gram,” I said.
“Oh, you two are helping yourselves, alright, to more food.” My gorgeous mother pinched my cheeks. Dad called her over from the line.
They were sliding to the left . . . Sliding to the right.
In the heart of Little Havana is Domino Park, avoiding it while en route to Alvarez’s law firm is impossible. I’d tossed the photo he placed on my nightstand on the dashboard. It slides to the left as I bend the corner.
Today, El Santo goes down.
I’ll walk into his office, show him the image, then I’m headed straight to the police station.
One may ask, why not cut out the drama?