Page 87 of Liar

“Say it.”

“Yes.”

I cringe, his admission not making the truth any easier to digest. “Fear and intimidation. That’s how this used-car salesman operates.” I shake my head, disgusted by this conversation. “Why are you calling me, Eduardo?” He already apologized. He did me a favor. That’s all that can be said and done.

“I’m leaving Loreto,” he croaks out. “My uncle needs me in Tijuana for business. I just wanted to say goodbye ... and sorry.”

Tijuana. Where Diego is. Coincidental? Or not?

“Please say you forgive me.”

I think of my parents, and how they’d expect me to respond. Holding this anger isn’t healthy. He can move on with his miserable life under his uncle’s thumb. Not dancing, by the sound of things. Not pursuing his dreams. I almost feel sorry for him.

With a deep, fortifying breath, I softly say it. “I forgive you.”

He sniffles. “Thank you, Luciana. Thank you.”

“Take care of yourself, Eduardo. I mean that.” I hang up, place the phone on the small table by the Bluetooth speaker, and turn on the music.

But now, as I place everything with Eduardo behind me and begin to dance, my spirit feels in perfect sink my movements.

* * *

Ilose myself in dance, practicing well into the evening, even choreographing a new contemporary dance routine that’s completely different from the salsa cabaret. I switch off the music, breathing hard, when the slightest of noises draws my attention to the doorway.

“How long have you been standing there?”

There he is in the doorway, arms crossed, watching me. I stare, noting his dirtied boots, soiled green pants, and ... is that blood on his shirt?

He closes the door behind him.

“What happened?”

“It’s over. Marifer is dead. Those I left alive have pledged loyalty or fled Loreto.” His tone is flat, his words harsh. His lack of emotion is disconcerting. This is the man everyone fears. This is the Bastard, in all his frightening glory.

He closes the distance between us.

My instincts are to scurry away. My wayward emotions would have me jumping into his arms. Conflicted, as always, is the new norm with this man.

He seems tired. On edge, like he’s still fighting a war.

“That’s it. Look at me. See me for what I am.”

“I already know what you are,” I softly reply. Because I do, I really, truly do.

He grunts. “We need to talk.”

I cock my head, not giving in. “Do we?”

He pins me with a look meant to intimidate.

I shrug my shoulders like I don’t care about his horrible habit of breaking my heart. “I know what you’re thinking. Now that the Z22 have been handled, I’m to return home, keep a low profile, avoid the Sureños, and move on with my life. That’s what I agreed to, isn’t that right?”

“You’d be running for the door if you knew what I was thinking.”

“No.” I lift my chin ever so slightly. “I wouldn’t.”

He softens at that. “No, I suppose not.”