Page 13 of Saint's Preciosa
"And how will we pay?" she demands, her normally gentle eyes fierce with a mixture of fever and stubborn dignity. "With what money, Luna? You work your fingers to the bone. I won't leave this world with you drowning in debt."
The eviction notice burns in my pocket. If she knew.
"I'll figure it out," I promise, smoothing back her thinning white hair.
Her expression softens, one gnarled hand reaching up to cup my cheek. "Mi niña valiente. Always carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. You deserve better. So much better.”
"Just rest," I tell her, rising to fetch more Vicks and the yerba buena tea she swears by. "I'll make you some soup before I leave for work."
In the tiny kitchen, I open our second-to-last can of chicken broth and add the leftover rice from yesterday, along with the wilting carrot and half onion from our nearly empty refrigerator. As the soup simmers, filling the apartment with a deceptively comforting aroma, I check our medication supply—only three doses of Abuela's blood pressure pills left, and her arthritis medicine ran out last week.
My hand brushes against the eviction notice in my pocket. The weight of it all makes me want to collapse to the floor and weep until there's nothing left inside me.
Instead, I pour soup into a chipped bowl, add a few stale crackers on the side, and carry it back to Abuela.
"You need to eat," I tell her, helping her sit up straighter. "To keep up your strength."
She accepts the spoon I offer but only manages a few bites before turning away. "No appetite."
"Please, Abuela." My voice cracks. "Try a little more. For me."
She shakes her head, her eyes drifting closed. "I'm tired, so tired."
I check my watch. The VIP party starts soon, and Popov will dock my pay if I'm late.
"I have to go," I say, hating myself for leaving her like this. "I'll be back by midnight. Try to finish the soup if you can. I’ll leave it next to your bed."
She makes a noncommittal sound, already drifting into a fitful sleep. I press a kiss to her forehead, still burning with fever, and whisper a prayer to a God I'm not sure is listening anymore.
Paco follows me to the door, his movements more energetic now that he can breathe better. I bend to scratch behind his ears. "Watch over her for me, fierce little warrior.”
He licks my hand and turns back toward the bedroom, as if accepting his mission.
Outside, the sky has darkened, and a chill wind cuts through my thin jacket. I pull it tighter around myself, thinking of Saint's warmth, the brush of his lips against mine, the security of his strong arms...
But those are dangerous thoughts. Men like Saint don't get involved with women like me—not without expecting something in return. And even if he is different, even if that kiss meant something... my life is too unsettled. Too precarious to allow anyone else in.
When I reach the Golden Touch Day Spa, I slip in through the employee entrance, hanging my jacket in the cramped staff room.
Yesenia is changing into a too-tight crop top and too-short miniskirt. Her eyes are red-rimmed, her movements jerky with anxiety.
"You okay?" I ask, keeping my voice low.
She shakes her head almost imperceptibly.
My stomach drops.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper, reaching out to squeeze her hand.
She flinches at the contact, her eyes darting to the door. "He's looking for you," she warns. "Been asking when you'd arrive. He's... different tonight. Angry."
Before I can respond, the door swings open, and Mikhail Popov fills the frame. He's a big man, thick-necked and heavy-handed, with small eyes set too close together and a gold tooth that flashes when he grins, as he's doing now.
"Luna," he says, my name sounding wrong in his accented voice. "My office. Now."
I follow him down the hallway to his office in the back, a small room dominated by a desk cluttered with papers.
He closes the door behind us, the click of the lock turning making my skin crawl.
