The cabrón referred to me as a monster.
“A good girl.” Angelica strangles on the words, responding to my statement of LeAnna’s purity.
“Sí.” The same hand I use to purify the flesh of women, I run along the back of my neck. A deep, rooted urge to perform my ritual sends my fidgety fingers in flight.
I need to cleanse, to purify another soul.
The craving swells in the depth of my abdomen as I stare at Angelica. She can sense the hunger in me because she lowers her gaze. To calm myself, I reach into my back pocket and pull out a Snickers bar, tossing it a few feet to Angelica. She catches it.
Warmth ribbons in her eyes. She’s torn between the common gesture of uttering her appreciation and detesting me. My mouth tugs to the left. She’s like my LeAnna. Even in her defiance, she’s innocent.
Fingers shaking, Angelica rips the candy bar open and bites half of it down. A few bites later, and she’s done. I reach and pull another Snickers from the back of my jeans. This one was mine, but her love for sweets has softened my heart. With a smile, like one would have when tossing a frisbee at their pet, I pitch the chocolate bar. “Be a good puta, gordita.”
Again, she shark-attacks half the chocolate bar. “Did you talk to LeAnna?”
Angelica finishes off the bar. I transition onto my hands and knees, crawling to her. She flinches, preparing herself for my touch, but I stop when my face is an inch from hers. Her sweet, chocolate breath sweeps through the material of my mask. “Sí, gordita.”
“Your eyes.” Angelica gasps. “They were br-brown. They’re green now.”
“Sí, mami.” I snatch the mask off my face, and her voice hitches on the wrong motherfucking name. “How? This can’t be. You can’t be . . . Dominic Alverez?”
“El Santo works. Dario Alverez is suitable too. Say my fucking hermano’s name again, and I’ll fillet all the fat off your skin, my sweet Angelica.”
Chapter Thirty
Dominic
I shift in my seat as the principal prattles about Yasiel’s expulsion. I’ve been without my cellphone for almost two weeks. But my office number was also on the emergency list. His parents are harder to contact. It’s a good thing they were able to get me because Yasiel would’ve walked off school grounds.
My mind goes to Aria. After a few days of calling and texting her, I compelled myself to wait it out. I’d given her a moment to contemplate. Toward the end of the first week, I left my cellphone to visit my Colombiana client. She’s in witness protection in Alaska. My luck further soured in my attempt to get back to Miami, and I returned a few days ago.
Dario hurled my phone across the marble flooring after seeing Carlotta’s phone number pop up on the screen. He didn’t attempt to call AT&T to replace it, nor did he have an explanation about entering my bedroom. Two days ago, FedEx dropped off my new phone. The number was all wrong.
You sent her the new cell number, idiota. She still hasn’t called you. I tell myself to focus on Yasiel’s current predicament. But the lack of pussy since my whirlwind weekend with Aria is getting the best of me. So much of the principal’s words about the school’s zero-tolerance policy fly through one ear and out the other. Then my ears perk up.
I wrestle with my cufflink, narrow eyeing the balding, monotonous principal. “Excuse me?” My voice drops into a frigid cadence of a trial attorney. “The students who attacked Yasiel haven’t received any disciplinary action?”
“Attacked?” He scoffs, sipping stale coffee. “Harsh words, Mr. Alvarez. Also, you’re highly aware that’s confidential.”
“Because if you are,” I growl.
“The other students have no prior record of disciplinary action.”
I arise from my chair. “Bueno. I’ll keep that in mind when you and I stand before the school board, reviewing the bylaw lines. Because you did say zero-tolerance, right? Prior disciplinary actions shouldn’t be taken into consideration. I’ll wear my best suit. You should too.”
“Mr. Alvarez!” The principal stands.
I glance at my new cellphone. My teeth grit further as I view a stream of awaiting texts, none of which are from Aria. I step out of the cinderblock office. A cement-covered path shields the hot November sun.
“How did it go?” Yasiel asks and moves from his comfortable position, leaning against the wall.
I grip the back of his hoodie as he starts toward the general exit.
“My ride is in teacher parking, Yasielito.”
“No problem. I’m taking the bus.”
I laugh a little, mocking him. “Don’t make me get loud with you. Not all these people know how us Cubans are. They call CPS, and I will beat your ass.”
He rolls his eyes.
“I’ll snatch those like your papi does too.”
I fix the collar of my suit while we walk through the halls of the counseling section. I nudge my chin to a motivational poster and glare at Yasiel.
“That’s stupid.” He rolls his gaze away from the poster.
We’re both quiet until we get to my Mercedes Wagon. I climb into the driver’s seat. Yasiel is as quiet as ever on the passenger side.
Letting my head fall back onto the headrest, I huff. “Look, I know—”
“I don’t give a fuck, Dom.”
“That you haven’t been coming around since the Colombians. At first, it was for your safety.” Then I started brooding over Aria. I told her about Mami. I let her in. “I’ve been in a mood. Not a good role model. Also, I had to go out of town for a few days.”
“Sí, this is all your fault!”
“Come again?” I growl in Spanish, starting the ignition.
“This!” He lifts his hands. “My expulsion.”
“Suspension. Because if they try it.” While pulling away from the curb, I pause, not expressing how I’d make the niño pobre a rich man. Money doesn’t last, and Yasiel doesn’t need to think that suing the general population is a means to an end. “You’re suspended, Yasielito. I’ll be speaking with the principal later today to confirm the others were too. You come by my office tomorrow with my breakfast—”
“Saturday?”
“Sí! I work on Saturdays. You will come by and again on Monday. Expect enough work to accommodate your days until you return to school.” I take the street, which leads toward the University of Miami and away from Little Havana. “Got that?”
“Sí.” Yasiel turns away, and I catch a slight smile. “Alright. You taking me to lunch?”
“No, Coconut Grove. Mi casa es tu casa, meaning if you cook yourself lunch, you make some for me too.”
“Damn!”
“No ‘damn,’ Yasielito. When your mami gets off work, I’ll tell—”
“Nah, you don’t have to.”
“Actually, you’re right. You’re telling her about the fight while I drive you both home.”
An hour later, I’m getting out of my ride when Yasiel rushes into the garage entrance. He had to go while we waited in traffic. I told him men wait. My papi had the same unrelenting demeanor. After the death of Mami, he became worse.