Page 20 of Saint's Preciosa
I follow her inside, taking in the tiny apartment with one quick tactical sweep. It's spotlessly clean but desperately poor—mismatched furniture worn thin with use, walls patched in multiple places, a small table with two rickety chairs. The kitchen cabinets hang slightly crooked, and water stains mark the ceiling in one corner. A shrine to La Virgen de Guadalupe occupies one corner, votive candles flickering beneath a well-worn statue, surrounded by photographs I can't make out from here. The place is meticulously maintained despite its obvious decay. Luna clearly does her best with what little she has.
The coughing leads us to a small bedroom where an elderly woman sits propped against pillows. She's tiny—can't weigh more than ninety pounds. Her silver hair is pulled back in a tight bun. Deep lines that speak of a lifetime of hardship are etched into her brown skin. Despite her obviously weakened state, her dark eyes are sharp and alert as they land on me, instantly filled with suspicion.
"Who is this man?" she demands, her voice hoarse but stronger than I would have expected after her recent coughing fit. Luna rushes to her side, speaking rapidly in Spanish, her hands moving expressively as she explains to her grandmother that I'm a friend who helped her. The old woman isn't buying it. Her gaze travels over my cut, the visible tattoos on my arms, the inherent danger she clearly senses in my presence.
"They call me Saint," I offer in Spanish, stepping forward with more confidence than I feel. I've faced down rival MCs, corrupt cops, and hardened killers without blinking, but something about this frail old woman's piercing gaze makes me feel like I'm being X-rayed, every sin and transgression laid bare.
Her eyes widen, and she makes the sign of the cross, muttering what sounds suspiciously like a prayer for protection. "¿Santo? No hay nada santo en ti."There's nothing saintly about you.
Can't argue with that.
"Abuela, por favor," Luna pleads, shooting me an apologetic glance.
"I know men like him," the old woman continues loudly in accented English, clearly wanting me to hear and understand every word. "I have seen them in Mexico. Dangerous men who think they own the world. They bring only misery and death." Her frail hand grips Luna's arm with surprising strength. "No quiero que estés cerca de él."I don't want you near him.
Her words are more than a plea, more than a warning, They’re a command. I recognize the fear in her eyes. It's the same fear I've seen in mothers when rival clubs roll into town, in shopkeepers when violence erupts nearby. The fear of becoming collateral damage in someone else's war. And if I'm honest with myself, she's not entirely wrong to be afraid.
Before Luna can respond, a blur of tan fur launches into the room, yipping excitedly. Paco rushes toward me, his tiny body wiggling with enthusiasm. Unlike his mistress, the dog apparently considers me a friend.
I crouch down, letting him sniff my hand before scratching behind his ears. "Hey there, little warrior. How's the breathing?"
Paco responds by jumping up, front paws on my knee, tail wagging so hard his entire body shakes. There's no trace of the labored breathing he displayed at the clinic—the medication must be working well.
"Traidor," Abuela mutters to the dog.Betrayer.
I can't help the grin that spreads across my face. "Dogs are excellent judges of character," I announce to the room, enjoying the way her eyes narrow further.
Luna alternates between sending pleading looks to her grandmother and throwing me worried glances. She touches Abuela's forehead, frowning at the heat she finds there. "Your fever's worse," she murmurs, reaching for a glass of water on the nightstand. "And you didn't eat your soup."
I notice the congealed bowl on the bedside table, barely touched. Not a good sign.
The old woman waves her hand in the air dismissively, her gaze never leaving me. "Why is he still here? ¿Por qué este criminal está en nuestra casa?"Why is this criminal in our house?
"He's not a criminal." The lie is sweet on her lips, even if we both know it's not true. "And he helped me, Abuela," Luna explains again, her voice tight with stress.
Abuela's reaction is immediate and vehement. "No! We don't want your help.” She sits up straighter, assessing me with the wisdom of someone who's seen too much. "Men like you never give something for nothing. There is always a price."
Luna shoots me an apologetic look. "Abuela, please, let's talk about this tomorrow when you're feeling better."
"There's nothing to discuss," the old woman insists, her righteous anger seemingly giving her strength. "Men like him always want something in return. Always." A coughing fit interrupts her tirade, her frail body shaking with the force of it.
She's not entirely wrong. I do want something. But not like the old woman thinks.
"My intentions toward your granddaughter are honorable," I find myself saying, struggling to find the right words. "I respect her."
Abuela scoffs, the sound transforming into another wet cough. When she recovers, her eyes are watery but fierce. "Respect? You think I was born yesterday?" She turns to Luna, switching back to rapid Spanish. "I see how he looks at you, niña. Like a wolf eyeing a lamb. These men—they take what they want and leave destruction in their wake. Just like what happened to your parents."
Luna flinches at the mention of her parents, and I feel a surge of protectiveness. This old woman may be sick, she may be looking out for her granddaughter, but I don't like seeing Luna hurt by her words.
"Abuela, that's not fair," Luna says softly.
The old woman's eyes narrow on me with unsettling hatred as she reaches down beside the bed and retrieves...a shoe? Yes, it’s a shoe. A worn leather sandal that she brandishes like it's a deadly weapon. For a moment, I'm too stunned to react. Is she actually planning to?—
Yes. Yes, she is.
The sandal flies through the air with surprising accuracy for someone in her weakened state, connecting solidly with my shoulder.
"Out!" she commands, already reaching for the other shoe. "Out of my home, criminal!"
