13 - Isa
The whiskey burns warm down my throat, neat and perfect in the way only La Sirena’s top shelf manages.
Slow night for a change. Half the usual crowd, Gunner crossing the floor with that measured violence he carries everywhere, checking exits like the world might end any second.
A Zayas soldier nurses a drink in the corner, pretending he’s not casing our security.
Every shadow could hide a gun, every passing car could be surveillance. That’s the reality of our world.
I watch Gunner scan the room, those pale eyes tracking threats that aren't there tonight, and almost smile at the memory of Adrian's offer from yesterday.
Want me to kill her for you?
The thought of Adrian actually following through on that joke makes me take another sip.
Not because he couldn't. There's something under all that warmth that could probably manage it.
But Gunner would lose his mind if anything happened to his ballerina.
Though knowing Adrian, he'd charm his way out of it somehow.
Make Gunner laugh, if Gunner even remembers how.
My fingers trace the rim of my glass as warmth spreads through my chest. Not from the whiskey.
From remembering yesterday at Ariele, the way Adrian's chest pulled against his shirt when he reached for the wine bottle, the way his forearms flexed, all that controlled strength I pretend not to notice.
The particular way he smells, tobacco and lime, that makes me want to lean closer even when I'm trying to maintain distance.
The way the afternoon light caught in his eyes when he promised nothing would happen to me.
Christ. I'm studying him now. The exact shade of his skin where his collar opens. The angle of his wrist when he signs a check. I can still taste the Cuban coffee he brought me this morning, still feel the ghost of his fingers when they brushed mine over the cup.
He makes me comfortable. That's the dangerous part.
More comfortable than anyone else manages.
The coffee every morning and most afternoons, the easy conversation, the way he knows exactly when to push and when to let me be.
Yesterday felt like something it wasn't supposed to be. Felt like a date, if I'm honest.
Between the passport delays and this stalker, Miami feels like it's closing in on me.
There's a subtle shift in the air before Logan materializes at my side, like the room preps for his presence before he even arrives.
The guy runs on a different operating system from the rest of us—he's not just the manager here, he's the architect of every moving part, from the servers' synchronized orbits to the way the lights dim by precise degrees as the night moves.
His hair is slicked back, navy suit pressed so sharp it could slice open a lesser man's ego, and he's tapping at a tablet with a speed that suggests he's already logged my entire thought process before I open my mouth.
He doesn't address me right away. Instead, he scans the room, fingers flicking through invisible tabs in his head—inventory, guest lists, the fluctuating probability of violence. Only then does he turn those blue eyes on me, their brightness bordering on the inhuman.
"Need something?" I ask.
"Was about to ask you the same." His tone is careful, almost gentle, the way you’d ask a veteran if the fireworks were too loud. "You've been staring at that same spot for five minutes."
I know what he’s really asking: Are you about to crack? Am I going to have to drag you out to the alley and talk you down? Or worse, inform Gunner you’ve become a liability?
I drain the last inch of whiskey and force a grin. "Do you ever not track every variable in the room, Logan?"
"That is literally my job." His mouth twitches at the corner, the closest he ever gets to smiling unless he's gutting a competitor over contracts. "But you're not a variable. You're a constant. That’s why I know something’s off."
The words hit harder than they should. I almost thank him, but the emotion gets strangled on the way up.
"I need the night off," I say.
This time he does blink, once, a deliberate little shutter click of surprise. "Now?"
"Now." I set my glass down with more force than necessary. The decision is sudden, but it feels like it’s been calcifying for weeks. "I have something to handle."
He looks at me like he wants to run diagnostics, but instead he swipes at his tablet, probably rerouting the entire evening’s workflow in real time. "Carlos can cover," he says, and it's not a question.
“Good,” I say, softer than before.
He waits a full beat. "Do you need backup?" It's not concern—it's protocol. If I say yes, he'll call in someone from the list. If I say no, he'll still tail me on cameras until I’m blocks away.
I shake my head. "Just need to clear my head."
He nods once, already moving on to the next thing. "Be careful," he tosses over his shoulder.
Left alone, I collect my thoughts, which are scattered like buckshot across the last forty-eight hours.
I tap a message to Gunner—Heading out. Will check in later.
I draft one to Adrian, but delete it before sending.
He’s probably two whiskeys deep into his own night by now, holding court for a room that only pretends to understand him.
I head behind the bar and grab my jacket from the low peg, the leather broken in a way that’s mapped perfectly to my shoulders.
Logan trusts me because I’ve never given him a reason not to, not in five years of this rhythm: show up, keep your head down, don’t get caught up in the drama.
I’ve seen bartenders flame out inside a month, either chewed up by the regulars or drifted out the back door by “security.” I’ve seen what happens when you fuck up, and I don’t plan on ever seeing it from the inside.
I head down the short hallway toward the employee exit. The back corridor reeks of bleach and fryer oil, the sound of dishes rattling like bones in a box.
I pause before the door, kneeling down in the narrow space to readjust the knife in my boot. The familiar weight of it steadies my nerves.
No more waiting for Adrian to fix this. No more playing damsel while someone watches me from shadows. I'm done being hunted.
The fetish club squats on the corner like something that crawled out of the bay and decided to stay.
Same industrial facade, same unmarked entrance, same spot where I almost caught him last time.
I work the area methodically, checking sightlines, noting escape routes.
Every doorway could hide someone. Every window could be watching.
But there's nothing. Just the usual Miami night. Thick air that tastes like salt and danger, distant music, the occasional drunk stumbling past. I circle the block twice, varying my speed, doubling back suddenly. All the tricks that should flush out a tail.
Nothing.
The proximity to the club pulls at something in my brain. That chamber. The afternoon I spent on my knees for a stranger, coming harder than I ever have while his distorted voice called me good girl through the speakers. The memory makes heat pool low in my belly, unwanted but undeniable.
The sick truth I won't admit: part of me is wet at the thought of being wanted this obsessively. What kind of broken does that make me?
I lean against a wall, forcing myself to think past the distraction. What is it I actually want? Not BDSM. Contracts and dungeons and calling someone master makes my skin crawl. But not vanilla either. Not soft and sweet and boring. The chamber gave me something, but what?
It's like hunger but worse. This need to surrender but only to someone who's earned it, someone strong enough to take what I'd never give. The chamber let me pretend for an afternoon, but the ache just grew worse after.
The unnamed need sits in my chest like a stone. I know what it's not. Can map its negative space perfectly. Not domination, not equality. Something else. Something that exists in the space between, and I can't find the words for it.
Maybe there aren't words. Maybe I'm just broken, wanting something that doesn't exist. The thought settles cold in my stomach.
All these weeks of being watched, of feeling eyes on me, and I can't even name what I'd want if I caught him.
Can't name what made me stay in that chamber when I could have left.
The broken question follows me as I give up on the hunt, heading home with nothing to show for it. Another night of shadows that won't solidify. Another night of not knowing what I'm really looking for in my stalker or myself.
My apartment greets me with its usual silence, every lock engaging with the proper resistance.
Check the windows. Latched. Check the bathroom.
Empty. Check the closet. Nothing but my carefully organized clothes.
The rituals should feel like safety, but tonight they feel like theater.
Playing at control while someone watches from somewhere I can't find.
A thump from next door makes me freeze. The new neighbor, whoever finally moved into 4B. I've barely noticed them, just shadows passing behind their door, footsteps through the shared wall at odd hours. Another thump, like furniture being moved.
I turn toward the wall that separates our apartments, and that's when I see them.
Holes.
Drilled holes in my wall.
The floor drops out from under me, my stomach plummeting through empty space. I move closer, my legs suddenly unsteady. Three holes at different heights, each not much wider than a pinhole. Almost invisible unless you're looking. Unless you know what surveillance looks like.
My fingers trace around one at eye level. The edges are clean, precise. Someone took their time with this. Someone who wanted perfect angles to watch me undress, sleep, live. Ice spreads through my veins.
The holes look like insect eyes. Dark, patient, waiting. I can smell my own fear-sweat, taste copper in my mouth from biting my tongue. My apartment suddenly feels like a stage, every corner a potential viewing angle.
Bile rises in my throat. Every night I've slept here. Every morning I've dressed. Every moment I thought I was safe behind locked doors and checked windows. All of it watched through these holes in my own wall.
The violation hits me in waves. Not out on the street where I could fight it. Not through windows I could board up. Inside my sanctuary. Inside the one space I controlled completely. The safest place I knew, and it was never safe at all.
My hands shake as I check the other holes.
One lower, angled toward my bed. Toward where I sleep, where I touch myself thinking about things I won't name.
One near the ceiling, positioned to see my bathroom door.
They know when I shower, how long I take.
Sightlines. Perfect fucking sightlines giving someone a complete view of my most private moments.
The new neighbor. It has to be. The timing lines up. The watching started right after someone moved in. They've been on the other side of this wall, watching me through these holes, studying me like I'm some experiment. Inside my sanctuary. The place I checked locks and felt safe.
Every night I felt eyes on me, I was right. But I was looking in the wrong direction. Looking out at the street when the threat was eight inches away, breathing on the other side of my wall.
Fury burns through the horror. Clean and sharp and absolute.
This isn't some abstract stalker I can't catch.
This is my neighbor. The new neighbor I've never properly seen, who moved in right when the watching started.
They're right fucking there, behind this wall, probably watching through these holes right now.
The thought makes my skin crawl and, worse, makes heat pulse between my thighs. This sick fascination with being wanted so completely, so obsessively. What the fuck is wrong with me?
My hand finds my boot knife without conscious thought. Three inches of German steel, familiar as my own heartbeat. The weight of it in my palm brings clarity. No more being hunted. No more playing victim.
I'm going to confront them now.
My body moves before my brain catches up, out my door and into the hallway. The carpet muffles my footsteps as I approach 4B. No plan beyond the rage, beyond the need to face whatever sick fuck has been watching me sleep. The knife stays in my hand, hidden but ready.
I stop at their door. This is it. The stalker who's been haunting me, who violated my sanctuary, who made me feel unsafe in my own skin. They're right behind this door.
I raise my fist and knock on the door. Three sharp raps that echo in the empty hallway. My pulse hammers in my throat as I wait. My knife hand stays low, ready to move. Ready for whatever opens this door. Man or woman, stranger or worse.
Footsteps inside, moving closer. The deadbolt turns with a click that sounds like a gunshot in the quiet. My breath catches as the door opens.
Adrian stands in the doorway.