33. Robin
ROBIN
I’m folded inside an armoire that smells like cedar and sex.
My knees are pressed to my chest. My shoulder is shoved against a row of dresses. Esmeralda is beside me, one trembling hand clamped over her mouth, the other gripping my wrist so tightly my fingers are starting to tingle.
Neither of us moves.
Neither of us breathes much either.
The armoire is ridiculously beautiful—carved dark wood with curling vines and flowers etched into the doors. In another life, I might have admired it. I might have run my fingers over the craftsmanship and haggled with its owner.
But in this life, the one I apparently live in now, I’m hiding inside it clutching the hand of a prostitute who predicted my death only hours ago.
My stomach turns.
We heard the shot.
Of course we heard the shot.
One second, Cruz told me to hide. The next, the whole house cracked open with the sound of gunfire.
I took the stairwell as he commanded. I obeyed without question, even though a big part of me wanted to stay with him.
I made it out of the sitting room and almost crashed into Esmeralda in the hallway. Her eyes were huge. She had come running from the kitchen.
“What’s happening?” she whispered.
I grabbed her arm. “Hide.”
“Mercedes—”
“Where is she?”
“She went back upstairs.”
“We’ll tell her when we get up there. We’ll tell her to hide. Are there any others here?”
She nodded. “Upstairs.”
Another crash came from downstairs.
A man’s shout.
Cruz’s voice.
Something heavy hitting wood.
“There’s no time to tell the others.” Esmeralda pulled me into what I assumed is her room. “They’ll hear the guns. They’ll hide.” She pushed me toward the armoire. “In.”
I went.
Now here we are.
Hidden like children.
I hate it.
I hate every second of it.
A loud thud echoes from somewhere below. Esmeralda flinches so hard her shoulder knocks into mine. I squeeze her wrist, even though I have no comfort to offer.
My own pulse is screaming.
I try to listen past it.
Footsteps?
Voices?
Another gunshot?
Nothing.
Then something worse.
Silence.
The kind that comes when everyone is too afraid to move.
Esmeralda’s breath shakes. Tears slide down her cheeks, but she makes no sound.
I think about Senora Valentina’s voice in the kitchen.
You are safe in this house.
God.
I close my eyes.
No.
Not now.
I can’t fall apart in an armoire. I can’t let my mind take me somewhere else. Not Romania. Not Adriana’s house. Not the cell. Not any of the places where I was helpless.
I need to stay here.
In this room.
In this body.
In this horrible moment.
A floorboard creaks outside the bedroom.
Esmeralda’s nails dig into my wrist.
I open my eyes.
Another creak.
Someone is in the hall.
I hold my breath.
A knock sounds against the bedroom door.
Three soft taps.
Esmeralda trembles beside me.
“Robin.”
God. Cruz. My heart punches against my ribs.
“It’s me,” he says. “Cruz.”
For a second, I can’t move.
His voice is different.
Esmeralda’s eyes meet mine in the darkness of the armoire.
Another knock.
“It’s all right,” Cruz says. “I took care of him.”
Took care of him.
I know what those words mean.
I push the armoire door open.
Light spills in, making me blink. Esmeralda climbs out after me on unsteady legs.
I cross the room and open the bedroom door. Cruz stands in the hallway. For one terrible second, I don’t recognize him.
His face is covered in blood.
Not completely, but enough. A smear across his jaw. A streak near his temple. Blood at the corner of his mouth. More on his throat. His shirt is stained. His hands are worse.
Red.
So much red.
My first thought is that he’s hurt.
Esmeralda makes a broken sound behind me.
I step forward. “What happened?”
Cruz’s jaw flexes. “Are you okay?” He nods to Esmeralda. “Both of you?”
Esmeralda swallows and then nods shakily. “I don’t know where Mercedes or the rest of the girls are.”
“Probably in their rooms,” he says. He slowly cranes his neck toward where he came from. “I took care of it.”
His teeth are gritted so hard the words barely make it out.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is the only one we have time for.”
Esmeralda appears beside me, clutching her robe closed. “What do we do now?”
“We need to get everyone out,” Cruz says.
“Is Mercedes okay?” I ask.
“As far as I know. I haven’t checked every room.”
Esmeralda’s face crumples. “Senora?”
Cruz goes still.
No.
No, no.
His throat moves. “She’s dead.”
Esmeralda’s knees buckle.
I catch her before she hits the floor.
“No,” she whispers. “No.”
Cruz closes his eyes for half a second.
When he opens them, there’s something raw in his face that makes my chest hurt even through the fear.
“She answered the door,” he says. “Zabala shot her. In cold blood.”
Esmeralda cries out.
I hold on to her tighter.
Zabala.
The man from the prison.
The man who thought it was okay to force himself on me.
“He killed her?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“And Zabala?”
Cruz looks down at his bloody hands. A silence passes. Then, “An eye for an eye.”
Esmeralda gasps.
I stare at him.
His face hardens. “He got what he deserved.”
Cruz killed Zabala.
I should feel horrified.
I do.
But not only horrified.
That’s the part I don’t want to examine.
Because Senora V is dead. Because Zabala came here with a gun. Because if Cruz hadn’t stopped him, he’d be dead. Esmeralda would be dead. Mercedes. Me. Everyone.
The Ace of Spades flashes in my mind.
Death.
Every prediction comes true…in a way. That’s what Esmeralda said.
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
I swallow hard. “Cruz.”
He shakes his head once.
Not now.
Right.
Not now.
He looks at Esmeralda. “Zabala won’t be the last.”
Her face is wet with tears. “What do you mean?”
“When he doesn’t return, Vega will send someone else.” Cruz’s voice sharpens. “As soon as he tries to contact Zabala and gets no response, he’ll send more men. Not one. Not two. An army.”
My stomach turns to ice.
“Here?” Esmeralda whispers.
“Yes.”
“But Senora—” Her voice breaks. “This is her house.”
“Right now it’s a target. As long as I’m alive, it’ll be a target. I should never have come here. And now you all have to leave.”
Esmeralda takes in a short breath. “I can’t.”
“You have to.”
“No.” She shakes her head wildly. “Where will we go?”
“A hotel. Family. Anywhere.”
She presses a hand to her chest, trying to breathe.
“I know where Senora keeps the money,” he says. “It’ll be enough to get you and the rest of the girls to a safe place.”
“Cruz,” I say carefully. “What are you doing?”
“Senora would want the women cared for. And it’s not like she needs it now,” he adds, his lip twitching.
“It’s not that,” I say. “And of course I want the girls safe. But I—”
He raises a hand. “We don’t have any more time. Stay here. I’ll check and make sure the others are okay. Then I’ll get the money.”
“Please—”
He leaves without letting me finish. Esmeralda and I stare at each other, saying nothing.
He’s back within ten minutes with a black leather bag. He shoves it at Esmeralda. “It’s filled with Colombian pesos. Enough to help you and the others get to safety.”
“How much is that?” I ask.
“Probably around five hundred US dollars.”
Esmeralda shakes her head. “I can’t take this.”
“You can.”
“No, Cruz—”
“You can, and you will.” His voice roughens. “Take the money. It’s what Senora would want. It’s what I want.”
She gulps and takes the bag.
“Get Mercedes. Get everyone working here. Anyone in the back. Tell them to take what they can carry quickly, not everything they own. Nothing that slows them down. No one stays.”
“What about Senora V?” Esmeralda whispers.
Cruz flinches. “We can’t take her with us.”
Esmeralda sniffles, tears falling faster. “We can’t leave her.”
“If we stay to mourn her, we die beside her.” Cruz inhales. “She’s in a better place now. It’s just her body left behind.”
Esmeralda lets out a sob.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and his voice is no longer hard. “I am so sorry.”
The apology is useless. They both know it.
But Esmeralda nods anyway. What else is there to do?
“You’re in danger if you stay,” he continues. “They’re not after you. After tonight, after tomorrow, you may have to start looking for work somewhere else. Or try to contact Senora V’s next of kin and find out who owns the house now.”
“This is the only life I’ve known,” she whispers.
I step closer.
She looks so small suddenly. She didn’t look small in the kitchen. She looked glamorous. Warm. A woman who knew how to fill a room with laughter and sensuality and the kind of comfort that made even danger feel, for a few seconds, like it could wait outside.
“I don’t know what I’ll do,” she says. “I don’t know how to be anything else.”
“Yes, you do.” I take her hands. “You’re charming. You’re kind. You’re smart. You know how to read people, how to make them comfortable, how to survive. Do you have any idea how valuable that is?”
Her mouth trembles.
“And you’re beautiful,” I add. “Which isn’t everything, but let’s not pretend it hurts.”
A wet laugh breaks through her tears.
“You can find work in any line,” I say. “Hospitality. Sales. Beauty. Clothes. Anything that involves people, you can do.”
“I’m too old to start over.”
“You’re not.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know enough.” I take her hand. “Once I’m back in America, I’ll wire you more money.”
Her brows draw together. “What?”
“As thanks for your kindness. Yours, Mercedes’s, everyone’s. Enough to give you time. Enough to help you figure out what comes next.”
Cruz turns his head toward me.
I feel his gaze, but I don’t look at him.
“I mean it,” I say.
Esmeralda shakes her head. “You don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t.”
“You barely know us.”
“You hid in an armoire with me. Senora Valentina opened her home to me. You fed me. You made me laugh for five seconds when I didn’t think that was possible anymore.” My throat tightens. “I’m so sorry for what happened. I can’t undo it. But I can try to make something right.”
Esmeralda’s face crumples again, and this time she steps into me.
I hug her.
And it feels right.
I don’t know this woman.
Not really.
But we’ve been through trauma together, and I’ll never forget her.
Esmeralda pulls back and wipes her face with both hands. “Thank you,” she whispers.
“Get everyone,” Cruz says.
She nods.
Then she turns and rushes down the hall, calling Mercedes’s name first and then others.
Cruz stands very still beside me, flexing his bloody hands at his sides.
I finally look at him fully.
Really look.
A bruise is already forming near his jaw. His throat is marked where Zabala must have grabbed him. His shirt is torn near the collar, and one sleeve is dark with blood.
He looks like a man standing in the wreckage of the only home he ever had.
My heart aches.
“You’re hurt,” I say.
“Not badly.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know.”
“Cruz—”
“We have to move.”
He looks down the hall where Esmeralda has disappeared and then back at me. His eyes are hard now, not with anger but with urgency.
“I need to get you to the car,” he says. “We leave now.”
“The embassy?”
“Yes.” He reaches for my hand.
Part of me wants to let him pull me down the stairs, past whatever horror waits in the foyer, out to the car, onto the road, toward the embassy, toward phones and brothers and lawyers and safety.
But safety without truth is just another locked room.
I look at his hand.
Then at his face.
And I shake my head.
His eyes narrow. “Robin.”
“We need to finish our conversation first.”