This very room is the reason she will come alone. I half expected a thousand cats. I stomp my foot every once in a while. Waiting to draw her in, I find an old, stale hand-rolled cigarette in the leather jacket I haven’t worn in a while. I head over to a box of hotel matches near a cluster of candles by the sliding glass door. I light up my old vice.
“Shit, Dominic, you quit these things.” I inhale deeply. “But this is the sort of woman who can drive any man to smoke.”
Anger burns across my flesh. Aria was never a target of mine. Not my type. At least, her ducking and dodging wouldn’t enthrall me enough to pursue her. The lone mouse is playing a game. I smile at the sound of footsteps.
“How did you get in here?” Her lush voice has underscores of trembling. We will rectify it, intensify it.
“I said, how did you get in here?”
Still focused on the room, I nudge my chin toward the balcony. From my side peripheral, a chef knife is in her hand. She won’t use it. She’s too easily read. I pick up photos of myself, photos she’s taken without my consent, and whisk them in her general direction. With each one, I count how she’ll beg my forgiveness. I’m gonna fucking kill—
“They are mine!”
“Are they, LeAnna? Or shall I call you, Aria.” My gaze glides toward her, and I hitch a breath. Oh, mamacita.
The woman before me is a stark contrast from the cat lady I envisioned. Aria Jones isn’t some little thing I can toss around. She’s bottom-heavy, fat lips on her face and down between those curvy voluptuous thighs. I’ll bite the former and break the fuck out of the latter.
Break, mold, make mine.
After I ruin Aria, I’ll remember every detail of her body the next time I jack off in the shower. Maybe even when I’ve moved on to my next piece of pussy.
The sound of her voice, the curve of her hips, the warmth of her chocolate, innocent eyes—all of her enraptures me. She’s a beguiling challenge.
Strolling over to a painting, I drag from the cigarette. The thought of old habits sends another jolt of venom through my veins. I grab a canvas painting, though my hands itch to fist Aria’s thick strands of hair and yank her around. I shove my fist into the center of the framed canvas. “This your property, Aria, sí?”
“You need to leave—”
“Or what? You call the cops?” I cock a brow. Picking up another painting, I light the paper on fire, then crush it under my boot. The gleam in my gaze warns how she’s next. I taunt her with my phone. “Let’s do this, mami. You say I’m breaking and entering. This room depicts something else altogether.”
Now, I have her attention. Smoke billows across my face as I murmur, “Aria, you’re gorgeous, deranged. Not a compelling combination.”
“You’re a sick fuck, Dominic Ángel Alverez. You know my name. I know you!”
I sneer, “What were you saying? Repeat yourself!”
“Kill me,” she threatens.
Kill her? She wants to die by my hands? My knuckle roams across her soft cheek, the smooth curve of it will be enough to hide the thickness of my cock. Women have shaken, trembled, convulsed beneath my touch.
But not like this.
“Kill you?” I huff, muttering how crazy beautiful she is. My mouth twitches. The sexual pull is undeniable. She’s the type of trouble I could get lost in for a while. I sense her purity while caressing her tears. “You’re crying, Aria. Look at those big brown eyes. You weren’t aware? You weren’t aware that you are crying?”
My lips press against her cheek. Damn, I can almost taste it. How I’ll rip past her slick resistance. “You begging me to tear you apart, Aria?”
“No.”
Then what the fuck do you want? Sex? For me to kill your pussy? I stare at the frustrating woman, recalling why I’m here. She infiltrated my life. I snarl, “You’re crying. I have yet to rip you to shreds. Should I break you, chula? Should I show you what happens to bad girls, sí?”
“Try me!”
I clasp her breast, groaning in astonishment. They’re real. My hands devour her flesh, her hips, her ass.
All real.
My fucking unicorn in a sea of plastic.
Dominic, women have never been your weakness, idiota. They’re for screwing and throwing away. I press my mouth against hers, my tongue soaring straight between those pouted lips. I push her thighs around my waist, my cock ramming the soft, warmth of her. She isn’t my first stalker. Why did Aria wear these stupid cotton pants? I’ve screwed loca women before. They were prepared to fuck.
She’s fresh, new.
“Wh-what are you do . . .” Aria stutters.
“You want me to kill you.” I pepper her neck with kisses. You’re getting a good thrashing. Then I’m going to threaten you to leave me the fuck alone.
When she says the rape word, I stumble back a few paces. “What the fuck are you talking about, lady?”
“Your—El Santo!”
“Wait.” I gesture. “You stalk me. Take photos and paint all these pictures. Now, you’re calling me a saint. I’m no fucking saint, puta. Do you want to fuck or no? First, it would have been me threatening to ruin your life, Aria. You’re playing . . .”
My eyes stare through her. I read her wrong.
Not Saint. Not like my clients after I’ve saved a sweet, old abuelitas from having to return to their native countries.
She’d called me, El Santo.
I gasp. “You think I’m El Santo? Aye Dios, you’re certifiable!”
Chapter Nine
El Santo
How could LeAnna mistake me for the pendejo! Dominic Ángel Alvarez bribed the overnight doorman for entry, leaving a trail. Homicidio es necesario when traces are left behind. The media bequeathed me with such a noble name. I’m obligated to measure up to their hype. No murdering. Not anymore.
I’ve honed my craft, cleansing the women is what I do. I study them for months, sleep in their bed, learn the spectrum of their emotions. I glean their secrets, their disappointments. The worthy ones disappear without a trace, only to resurface purged. Not dead. Purged. Sacrificed—ángeles. No fault in their eyes—though their souls still shine in the depths of their lifeless gazes.
Sitting on the balcony’s cement floor, leading into the art room, I lean my head against the wall. Sí, if someone were to observe me, I’d have to indulge their perceived fears. Send them to the next world. But do not be confused. They may go up or down. My ángeles ascend—I make that happen.
I came here for her, the broken, black girl. I remove a cigarette from my pocket, press it beneath my nose, and breathe in.
“You’re certifiable! You think I’m El Santo?” comes Dominic’s faint, shocked voice from mere feet away.
“Sí, amigo,” I mutter under my breath. “We all make mistakes.”
Aria, the name doesn’t strike me as fitting of such a gorgeous vessel. I will only refer to her as LeAnna. A fond smile plays at my lips at how my new ángel grew a tad hesitant after daring Dominic to kill her.
“Keep being bold, mami. You will not die at his hands.”
I will not allow it. These fingers of mine, and no one else’s, will bless her spirit.