Page 32 of Saint's Preciosa
"I was born knowing," Abuela replies with such matter-of-fact confidence that the men roar with laughter.
I stare, dumbfounded, as my pint-sized Abuela banters with these big, burly, dangerous men as comfortably as if they were old friends at our kitchen table. She's transformed, reinvigorated, standing straighter than I've seen her stand in years.
Saint stands at Abuela's side, chopping onions with efficient precision. “How’m I doing?” he asks.
"You're learning," Abuela tells him, nodding approvingly at his knife skills. "Maybe there is hope for you yet."
"Does this mean I'm earning your blessing to ask for Luna's hand in marriage?” Saint’s voice is teasing, but there’s an undertone of seriousness that makes my breath catch.
Abuela scoffs, but I detect a hint of fondness beneath her brusque exterior. "It takes more than good knife skills to convince me you deserve my nieta. But..." she pauses, eyeing him critically, "you are making progress."
"I'll win you over, señora," Saint promises with that confident grin that makes my knees weak. "I'm a patient man when something's worth waiting for."
"We will see," Abuela replies, but there's less hostility in her tone than I've ever heard her direct toward Saint. "First, prove to me you can make proper coffee."
Marriage? They're talking about marriage?
I back away from the doorway, overwhelmed by what I've just witnessed. Abuela, apparently recovered enough to be bossing around a kitchen full of outlaw bikers. Saint, casually discussing marriage as if it's a foregone conclusion. The easy camaraderie between my grandmother and these men she initially regarded with such suspicion and fear.
My mind is blow. Completely blown.
I need to find Sophie and Angel, to share this miraculous transformation. I turn quickly, intending to retrace my steps, when I nearly run into Cherry.
Her appearance is so different from our previous encounters that I barely recognize her. Gone is the aggressive confidence, the revealing clothing, the perfectly styled hair. Instead, she looks disheveled, her makeup smudged as if she's been crying, her shoulders hunched defensively.
"Luna," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "Thank God I found you."
I try to just ignore her and step around her, but she grabs my arm.
"Please," she whispers, glancing nervously over her shoulder. "I need to talk to you.”
I hesitate, eyeing her warily. "About what?"
Her hand trembles as she releases my arm. "Not here," she says, pulling me toward an empty alcove. Against my better judgment, I follow her. Something about the genuine fear in her eyes has caught me off guard.
Once we're alone, Cherry leans in close, her voice barely audible. "You care about them, don't you? Saint and the club?"
"Of course I do," I answer cautiously.
She nods, biting her lip. "I thought so.” She wrings her hands, genuine distress apparent in her posture. "I know you have no reason to trust me, but this is bigger than me or you. This is life or death."
A chill runs down my spine at her words. "What are you talking about?"
I study her face, searching for signs of deception. Her usual mask of bravado is gone, replaced by what appears to be genuine terror.
She glances around again, then reaches into her bra and pulls out a folded note. "This was slipped under my door last night. Read it, but please, please, don't let anyone see you."
I take the note reluctantly, unfolding it with trembling fingers. My blood runs cold as I read the typed message:
CLUBHOUSE WIRED WITH EXPLOSIVES. GET LUNA MARTINEZ TO PIER 17 ALONE BY 11 AM OR WE DETONATE. TELL ANYONE AND YOU ALL DIE. REMEMBER HOW GOLDEN TOUCH SPA WENT BOOM?
"I don't understand," I whisper, looking up at Cherry. "Why you? Why me?"
"I don't know," she answers, a sheen of tears forming in her eyes. Maybe because they think you belong to them and they want you back?"
I glance at my watch—10:15 AM. Less than an hour.
"We should tell Saint," I say, already turning toward the door. "Or Ghost. They'll know what to do."
