Page 172 of Dancing with the Devil

I buried my face in his chest, preparing for the gunshot, but my mother finally gave in. After she left, Antonio had some guys carry my father’s body away.

I wrapped my arms around him, feeling hurt and betrayed. “Why did you lie to me?” I choked out. “I fucking trusted you.”

I clutched his shirt in my hands, pressing my face into his chest. Because even though he was the one who hurt me, I desperately craved his comfort. It was ironic, really. And painful. Really—fucking—painful.

“Will you let me explain—”

“No—” I cut him off as I pulled back. My voice was tremulous. “Tell me that you still love me. Tell me that your love was the one truth you told me, so that I have something to hold onto.”

He gently took my face in his hands, his eyes softening with sadness.

“I love you, Nirah Joy. I have never lied about loving you,” he shook his head and I raised my hands to hold onto his wrists. “Loving you was one of the first real things I truly ever felt.”

I stared up at him with a million thoughts racing through my mind. I glanced over at Nereus, and he gave me a single nod. I chewed my bottom lip with teary eyes. “Then let’s get on with this wedding before our priest runs for the hills.”

I heard Nereus chuckle, and Antonio nodded. We all turned to find the priest, glued to the sand in fear as his eyes stayed wide open. Antonio took my hand, and the three of us walked back to him. “Don’t fuck this up,” I warned and he swallowed hard.

“Yes. Of course,” he nodded and Antonio and I stood in our previous positions, holding hands.

I nearly beat a man half to death with a sledgehammer. I burned a man alive, and watched his body go up in flames. I killed my father. And Idon’tfeel remorse.

I think my mother was right when she sent me to that hospital. I think I am fucked up in the head.

CHAPTER 40

Antonio

One Year Ago

POTS AND PANS clinked on the other side of the door.

I took one more pull from my blunt and heard the sound of feet shuffling before the door swung open.

As soon as his eyes met mine, he immediately tried shutting the door, but I stopped him, pushing the door open. “Try that again, and I’ll cut your fucking hand off,” I warned and his eyes fill with hatred.

“What are you doing here?” he forced out, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in for a drink?” I taunted, and he bit down on his teeth.

“Please don’t—”

“Invite me inside, Miguel,” I ordered, and he swallowed hard before stepping aside.

He nodded for me to come in, and I slowly stepped inside. He led me further into the house, and we ended up in the kitchen that looked like it had been terrorized by a goddamn zoo.

The stench of burned toast and bacon hit my nose in a wave of warm air, and my eyes landed on the pans on the stove, as well as beer bottles scattered in and around a trash can. He’s a drunk.

He pulled out two ice-cold beers and plopped down onto the chair, handing me one as he took a sip.

I sat down at the table as well, taking my last pull from my blunt before tossing it into the ashtray on the table.

“What do you want?” he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“When have you known me to be someone who waseverin the mood for games?” I asked, and his right leg began bouncing incredibly fast.

“I’ll get you what you want—just, please. I need more time,” he pleaded, and I could almost bash his head into the table.

He screwed me over, lost the damn money, and expected me to give him time?