Damn, I came in for a juicy steak, which, now, won’t satiate me. I wipe my hands onto the linen napkin and down the wine. Aftershocks of Dominic’s effect sends a tiny thrill up my spine.
“Alright, Aria. You lived,” I tell myself. The regret of ReAnna not having the same opportunities flits through my mind. I place enough cash on the table to pay for the uneaten food when my ears perk again.
The heat washing over my skin isn’t titillatingly welcome, not like before. Goosebumps of uncertainty and fear devour my flesh as Dominic growls to the woman. “I want to fucking tear you apart.”
Chapter Five
Aria
Midnight merges into daybreak. Dozens of snapshots, from afar, are on the bed before me. I knead the nape of my neck, disappointed that my cell phone camera was my only option after stowing my equipment.
“You can do this, Aria,” I say, sifting through the fuzzy photos. I’d followed El Santo, er, Dominic, and his date to the elevator. Then I slid inside while the doors were closing.
I’d mashed any number, listening to the sounds of them. My rage for El Santo overshadowed the fleeting passion of losing myself to a stranger. When the elevator doors opened, and they, still joined as one, exited, I stared in horror.
Just like you failed ReAnna, you failed her, my conscious whispers. Or what? Tell the blonde the man whose tongue had lodged down her throat was a serial killer with a particular skill set.
I heard El Santo carved designs into their abdomens. Delicate, sacred, saintly designs. At least, an associate of Roslyn’s had thought so. Through the he said, she said, I learned the gossiper was a crime scene cleaner.
I click through the channels, all major outlets, and wait. Wait for . . . the heaping guilt at the sight of the second female I could have saved but didn’t. I’ll never forget the face of Dominic’s date. El Santo had a type—blonde, curvy Cubanas.
“Car chase. Ponzi scheme. Secret Santa in the Summertime.” I mutter the current headlines off the different stations.
With my brain wired for catastrophe, I grab my phone. I overlook the calls and messages from Roslyn to search online. When in doubt, Google.
“Nothing,” I huff.
My cellphone lights up.
My older cousin, and boss, Siobhan, is on the other line, with a London caller id.
“Hey?” I begin. “I thought you were taking summer off.”
“Oh, thank goodness.” She issues a breath. “Roslyn called me, complaining about how many attempts to ca—”
“What’s wrong?”
“You, Aria. Grandpa is up in age—”
“What did I do?” My voice grows tiny; guilt is my oldest friend.
“Nothing, I did not mean to infer.”
That I was a burden on our grandparents because my parents gave up on me. “I’m chill; it’s alright.” I wince at how forced nonchalant I sound.
“What I meant is, Roslyn called me instead of Gramps. You know he’s getting up in age this past year.”
“So, why would Ros call you about Gramps?” I mumble, scolding myself for using a photo printer for my cell phone instead of the darkroom. The development of each image is awful.
“No. Ros called about you, not Gramps. Roslyn said she didn’t want to bug Gramps unless . . . You weren’t answering her calls, Aria. Don’t worry about it.” Her tone softens. “So, you took someone home after the wedding?”
I smile. “Nope.”
“Sheesh, as long as it’s not the one they’re calling El Santo, take a Honda for a spin. Hell, take a Pinto for one measly ride, cousin.”
“Heh. Gram came home with a bright red pinto one year. Gramps said the car wasn’t worth the scraps.”
She laughs a little, and I sense she has more to say. “How about I have Lincoln introduce you to his British friends?”
“Soft no, Siobhan.” Her husband scares me. He doesn’t have the Tom Hardy in literally any movie ever voice. He has the Christian Bale in The Dark Knight voice. No matter how swiftly it’s becoming an epic classic, it’s plain scary.
I muse, “Now that I have you on the phone, I’ve updated a few of the marketing—”
“Oh, hell no. Hard no, Aria! This was a social call, and I hear wonders about you from Jack. That’s all I need. Unless you—”
“Anything.” I gulp. Siobhan has enabled me to be a homebody.
“Want to start visiting the office more? Engage with Jack and the team. I’ll make you VP of—”
“I’m content with my earnings,” I reply, fiddling with the fuzzy photo of Dominic Alvarez.
Siobhan snorts.
Even as a caramel-coated blur, he’s handsome. I flick the photo across my bed into a pile of more of them. Stop fixating on El Santo, I warn myself. Clearing my throat, I reply, “Albeit, I’m not saying I’m paid too much or anything.”
“Girl, I would complain, but when you’re on, you are on. You’re the most reliable person. You have an eye for the product most are incapable of perceiving. Would be nice to hear you’ve motivated others to your level of work. But I’ll let you go, for now, Aria.”
“Love you, cousin.”
“Love you more. Listen, is there something you should tell me? Because you answer on the second ring, Aria, prompt as ever. Are you having an off day?”
“No.” I sigh, staring at the television. Now the channel is displaying the car chase, which was the highlight on the other news station. Had El Santo struck last night, the Lamborghini gleaming in the afternoon sun wouldn’t have the headline.
“Um,” Siobhan’s voice strangles. “You remember Reggie?”
“Sure, your best friend, Regina.” I heave a sigh. Regina and her husband were murdered a few years ago by a stalker who set his sights on Siobhan.
Not delving any further, my cousin wraps up the call. “Stay safe. I’d fight for you, Aria.”
We hang up. Though it’s a breath of fresh air to hear someone would fight for me when my parents refused to, I never fought for ReAnna. Never fought to kill the anxious nerves riding in my stomach as I watched her fade from sight. It’s time to fight for me, for them.
Chapter Six
Dominic
Four months later
Someone’s watching me. The little kitten has no idea what she’s gotten herself into. Standing at the entrance of my home, I read over a threatening letter. The writing is feminine with a faint scent of sweet perfume.
I crush the paper in the palm of my hand. Next, I’ll crush her. Break her down to a pulp and have her for dinner. I slam the front door, stalking across the clay tile, cursing beneath my breath.
At the top of the double staircase, my latest piece of ass starts toward the opposite side of the house—the side nobody ventures into. She backpedals before I can pounce.
“Oh, I thought . . .” The pretty blonde Cubana glances down at me. A faux hip leans against the hand-carved railing. “I thought I heard something, papi.”
“Don’t you worry about all of that.”
“You coming back to . . . You look tense. Come here,” she coaxes.