DIABLO INSIDE

by Amarie Avant

  You sent her the new cell number, idiota. She still hasn’t called you. I tell myself to focus on Yasiel’s current predicament. But the lack of pussy since my whirlwind weekend with Aria is getting the best of me. So much of the principal’s words about the school’s zero-tolerance policy fly through one ear and out the other. Then my ears perk up.

  I wrestle with my cufflink, narrow eyeing the balding, monotonous principal. “Excuse me?” My voice drops into a frigid cadence of a trial attorney. “The students who attacked Yasiel haven’t received any disciplinary action?”

  “Attacked?” He scoffs, sipping stale coffee. “Harsh words, Mr. Alvarez. Also, you’re highly aware that’s confidential.”

  “Because if you are,” I growl.

  “The other students have no prior record of disciplinary action.”

  I arise from my chair. “Bueno. I’ll keep that in mind when you and I stand before the school board, reviewing the bylaw lines. Because you did say zero-tolerance, right? Prior disciplinary actions shouldn’t be taken into consideration. I’ll wear my best suit. You should too.”

  “Mr. Alvarez!” The principal stands.

  I glance at my new cellphone. My teeth grit further as I view a stream of awaiting texts, none of which are from Aria. I step out of the cinderblock office. A cement-covered path shields the hot November sun.

  “How did it go?” Yasiel asks and moves from his comfortable position, leaning against the wall.

  I grip the back of his hoodie as he starts toward the general exit.

  “My ride is in teacher parking, Yasielito.”

  “No problem. I’m taking the bus.”

  I laugh a little, mocking him. “Don’t make me get loud with you. Not all these people know how us Cubans are. They call CPS, and I will beat your ass.”

  He rolls his eyes.

  “I’ll snatch those like your papi does too.”

  I fix the collar of my suit while we walk through the halls of the counseling section. I nudge my chin to a motivational poster and glare at Yasiel.

  “That’s stupid.” He rolls his gaze away from the poster.

  We’re both quiet until we get to my Mercedes Wagon. I climb into the driver’s seat. Yasiel is as quiet as ever on the passenger side.

  Letting my head fall back onto the headrest, I huff. “Look, I know—”

  “I don’t give a fuck, Dom.”

  “That you haven’t been coming around since the Colombians. At first, it was for your safety.” Then I started brooding over Aria. I told her about Mami. I let her in. “I’ve been in a mood. Not a good role model. Also, I had to go out of town for a few days.”

  “Sí, this is all your fault!”

  “Come again?” I growl in Spanish, starting the ignition.

  “This!” He lifts his hands. “My expulsion.”

  “Suspension. Because if they try it.” While pulling away from the curb, I pause, not expressing how I’d make the niño pobre a rich man. Money doesn’t last, and Yasiel doesn’t need to think that suing the general population is a means to an end. “You’re suspended, Yasielito. I’ll be speaking with the principal later today to confirm the others were too. You come by my office tomorrow with my breakfast—”

  “Saturday?”

  “Sí! I work on Saturdays. You will come by and again on Monday. Expect enough work to accommodate your days until you return to school.” I take the street, which leads toward the University of Miami and away from Little Havana. “Got that?”

  “Sí.” Yasiel turns away, and I catch a slight smile. “Alright. You taking me to lunch?”

  “No, Coconut Grove. Mi casa es tu casa, meaning if you cook yourself lunch, you make some for me too.”

  “Damn!”

  “No ‘damn,’ Yasielito. When your mami gets off work, I’ll tell—”

  “Nah, you don’t have to.”

  “Actually, you’re right. You’re telling her about the fight while I drive you both home.”

  An hour later, I’m getting out of my ride when Yasiel rushes into the garage entrance. He had to go while we waited in traffic. I told him men wait. My papi had the same unrelenting demeanor. After the death of Mami, he became worse.

  Chuckling, I toss my keys up and catch them. “Don’t be Papi, Dom.”

  I preferred Mami’s cup towels and flip-flops at the back of my head compared to my father. Mami concluded her punishment with tender motivation. He beat my ass and gave a stern look before returning to the hood of the next car that needed tinkering with.

  In the kitchen, I slide out of my blazer and open the refrigerator contemplating my parents.

  They had passion. Which was something I never knew I needed, until . . .

  Papi may as well have followed Mami to heaven. He refuses to visit from Cuba, though I’ve made it possible.

  Too late, Dom. You made it possible too late.

  I pull out Cuban bread, ham, Swiss cheese, and a jar of pickles from the subzero refrigerator. I zip around the kitchen, grabbing a bowl, a whisk, and ingredients for my special mustard.

  Upon entering the room, Yasiel slams his hands onto the marble slab counter. “Sandwiches? So, you do love me!”

  I whisk my special sauce. “You’re not off the hook, Yasielito. I’m a big man. Sandwiches don’t fill me up. Grab the leftover sweet potatoes out of the fridge, chill some glasses, sí.”

  He nods, chewing his lip.

  “What’s with the look?” I place the stainless-steel whisk at the side of the bowl.

  “I dunno.” Yasiel rubs the tiny bristles of hair along his chin. “When I came inside . . . eh, it’s nothing.”

  “Be confident, complete your statement,” I order. He’s too old to hesitate.

  Yasiel lifts a brow. “Okay. Is Dario walking? Because you’re like a tío to me, Dominic. I thought you’d tell me, even though we haven’t talked much since those Colombian pendejos came—”

  “Walking?” I tilt my head in confusion. “Would be nice.”

  “Okay, bueno. I mean, not bueno. I knew you’d tell me if your brother started walking. But I could’ve sworn I saw his feet at the top of the stairs when I ran inside to take a leak.”

  I hike into the hallway, which leads toward the driveway and the back staircase.

  “Dario?” I call out, beyond elated.

  Two steps at a time, I jog up the staircase next to a wheelchair ramp. Down the long corridor is my side of the house. The less stuffy side with the double door leads to my room. I stop at the first door up the stairwell and open it.

  “What the fuck?” With no sight of him, I track across the expansive room where two humongous flat screens are on the wall. One screen is on the main page of a popular video game. The other TV displays an illegal online poker game. In the custom gaming chair, a still lit cigarette is in the ashtray of the armrest.

  When I pulled that stunt of paying Aria’s doorman for entrance into her apartment, I’d smoked my first cigarette in over a year. It occurs to me that Dario had the jacket on about a month before I did. I wonder if it was his. He spends his days aimlessly roaming through the house, which sometimes includes my room.

  I hadn’t touched a cancer stick in ages. I quickly stub out the hand-rolled stick. “Dario, where are you? How many times do I have to say you’ll burn down . . .”

  My voice trails off at the sight of my older twin lying on the floor. His legs twist at an awkward angle. His feet are lifeless as he army crawls to his chair.

  “Your house?” He sneers. “You have insurance.”

  I grit my teeth, going toward him to offer a hand. He slaps it down, reeking of alcohol.

  “Lemme help you!” I growl.

  “Fuck your help,” Dario spits.

  Reaching down, I pick up a bottle of rum, which he must’ve been crawling to. “I’ll finish this for you, hermano. Clearly, you don’t need it.”

  “Heh. I bought it with your credit card, so . . .”

  It’s like I’m arguing with myself in the
mirror, and I don’t like who I’ve become. Shoving a hand in my hair, I laugh a little. “My fault for letting you use my card.”

  “Aye, wouldn’t you rather me spend your money on making a disabled fuck like me happy? Or you prefer spending your money on putas?” Dario flips over onto his elbows and ass, lifting up. He grunts, pulling himself into a seated position against the wall. “Oh, wait, you’re settling down now, right? Got you a little puta you care about?”

  “She’s not.”

  Dario’s dark green eyes twinkle. “Hmmm, I read you well, Dom. Your puta had you believing she was innocent? What a shame, you told her about Mami. But where is she? Shouldn’t her place have been your first destination since returning to Miami?”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  El Santo

  When Dominic’s little friend came waltzing into the house, I flew up the stairs. I drenched alcohol over my chest to make like I’d gotten drunk. Then I’d positioned myself helplessly on the ground, in anticipation of the niño pobre snitching. My hard gaze dances across my enemy’s. “You told her about Mami.” I smile lazily. The hatred I have for Dominic is written all over my skin.

  Favoring my upper body, I slide back. My legs are motionless like my ángeles as I make them limp. They slide along with my upper body against the wall. “You opened up to the puta. Let her in. Now, she’s probably letting someone else inside of her. Probably got fucked for breakfast or lunch today.” Fucked hard by me.

  “Dario, you’re drunk.” Dominic points the bottle at me. “You’re my blood, idiota, and Mami’s looking down on us.”

  I blink a few times. “Eh? I can’t say the puta was being fucked. I thought that was your favorite pastime, Dom? Ramming your dick in another cunt, sí? You like it; they love it.” Our LeAnna loved it.

  “I have company.”

  “Ha! Because this is your house. What should I do? Fork out my entire disability check to you?”

  “Did I ever ask for a dollar when you moved in?”

  “No. You wanted my balls nipped. To take care of me. My disability, your atonement, sí!”

  “What the fuck do I have to atone for, huh?”

  “You know!”

  Dominic forks his fingers into his hair. He’s flustered, not broken. None of my antics break him, not yet. “Mírame, Dario, mírame!”

  I glare harder at him.

  “Don’t make me have your ass committed for being delusional! Mami would be livid.” He stops speaking again, the muscles beneath his jaw working in overtime. “All I’m saying is I have company. Yasielito. You remember him? Use the type of language appropriate for the niño while he’s here. Por favor.” After a few beats, he whips open the door.

  “Lock my shit up on your way out.”

  Shaking his head, he turns the lock on the knob then starts to slam the door but stops himself. All the guilt in the world constricts his shoulders. When we were young, we fought like rabid dogs. He won. The pendejo always won. Yet, he stops himself now. Since Mami’s death, Dominic is all about familia.

  A few seconds later, I stand to my full height, a smug smile on my face. My car crash left me with an L2 injury. From my abdomen up, I’ve always had nerve control. Hips down, I was once worthless for a time. Carlotta would’ve been the first to know, but she lost the right when I saw her flirting with Dominic. Carlotta’s deception was the last straw. She resembled Alejandra in every way conceivable—looks, career drive, and falling for my hermano gemelo!

  History repeated itself.

  Had I taken Carlotta’s life the day she screwed me over, motive would’ve been my undoing. Carlotta’s manipulations gave birth to El Santo. Now, the only people aware of my recovery are my ángeles and Angelica, of course. Carlotta didn’t deserve to witness greatness.

  The day Dominic was set to fly to Alaska, LeAnna reached out. Placing his clients in witness protection is rare. So, I took LeAnna’s extending the olive branch by texting about lunch at the tapas bar as a personal sign. She sought me, not him. Until today, his calls and texts to her are redirected to none other than me. Destiny had seen to it.

  No tengo mas paciencia, I muse. LeAnna’s time to seek me rather than Dominic is over.

  Picking up the stubbed-out cigarette, I light it. I glare at the closed door. “I had your woman, hermano. I’ll have her again. When I’m done with LeAnna, you can have her back—in this life or the next. You deprived me of that right when it came to Alejandra.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Aria

  My baby sister had a knack for playing with our cousins. Not me. I thrived on our twinsies connection or shoving Gram’s famous dessert in my mouth. Plural desserts. Gram was a beast in the kitchen. After my grandparents and I moved away, I felt guilty. We’d left a huge family in San Antonio. Most of all, we left behind Siobhan, who had no sisters her age.

  But Gram made sure Siobhan and I stayed connected, such as us driving back home for church once a month. We were baptized on the same Sunday. Our Gram gave us each a necklace with a cross pendant as a gift. A bond sparked between Siobhan and me. Her mother, Shania, upgraded our silver necklaces once we grew out of them.

  A few years ago, Siobhan’s was taken. I mailed her mine with a tiny note that we could share it. Since then, we’ve couriered the necklace to each other. With the arrival of the necklace to the intended recipient, we host Zoom parties online. It could be considered the “Yaya Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants,” on steroids, since we are now adulting, via wine and gossiping.

  I sit in the center of my bed, legs folded up. Aunty Shania and Siobhan are in individual boxes in the center of my HP screen. Shania lounges in her living room with the same evening sun as I do. Whereas Siobhan is holed up in a dark room, away from her children after midnight.

  “So, Siobhan tells me—”

  “Momma!” My cousin gasps, clutching the crown of her crinkled hair.

  “Um-hmm, stop telling secrets, child of mine. Aria, you’re dating!”

  Feel-good giggles are my only response.

  “Oh, the sex is that good!” She takes in a lungful of air.

  “You better tell us,” Siobhan counters.

  Words are on the tip of my tongue. Sex, here in my bed, was amazing. Sex on the rooftop restaurant—hell, not even I know what that was—raw, aggressive, animalistic.

  “On a scale of one to ten.” Aunty eyes me with curiosity while simultaneously pouring wine to the brim of her cup.

  I open my mouth, then hold up an index finger to signify how I need a moment. All three of us chuckle tipsily. I reach over to sip my glass of pinot. Composing myself, I beam. “A number has yet to be invented.”

  “Nice! What’s his name?”

  I sip a little more. “Nobody.”

  “Hmm, I’m not a fan of that.” Siobhan chortles. “I prefer Ambitious or Joaquin. I gave Lincoln his junior. Now, I keep begging Lincoln to get me pregnant with a little Joaquin.”

  Aunty sighs. “The two of you should get pregnant at the same time!”

  “Aunty, put the cork in your wine bottle, please,” I counter. “Gramps will ask for his glasses and want to see the phantom ring on my finger. I’ll have to snitch and tell him it was y’alls’ idea.”

  “Oh, lord.” Siobhan laughs. “How many times did we hear the entire spiel. Monkey see monkey do. If she jumps off the cliff, you gon’ jump off the cliff?”

  By the third or fourth figure of speech, I hop in. Another bout of laughter hijacks our silly conversation. “Siobhan, are we missing one?”

  “Yeah, but we’re doing well under the circumstances. Gramps ticks them all off on his fingers, never missing nary one!”

  Aunt Shania clears her throat with a prissy countenance. “I’m still waiting for the lover’s name.”

  I sigh. “We had an amazzzzing weekend together. Then insert my schizoid antics.”

  “Uh, he ran?”

  “Actually, he called and texted for the next few days.”

  “Girl, what did you d
o?” Siobhan asks.

  Her mother speaks over her. “Don’t tell me you ignored—”

  “I sort of apologized for being,” I shrug, “me. We met at a restaurant and—”

  “Oh, yes! Honey, what happened?” Aunt Shania rubs her hands together.

  “Momma!”

  “Yes. That happened.” I nod.

  “How—”

  “Off the friggen Richter scale again. Then . . .” My shoulders deflate in frustration. Snapping my fingers, I gesture. “Aunty, it reminds me of your Toni Braxton wig!”

  Aunty Shania is a wig connoisseur. She has a collection named after R&B singers. The “Chaka Khan” is her favorite. I prayed for a mother like her once.

  Shania’s eyes widen. “The Toni Braxton, ‘Unbreak My Heart?’ Did he die?”

  Siobhan chortles. “Momma, keep up the dramatics. I’m the host of this zoom meeting. You will be blocked.”

  I shake my head. “Nope. ‘The Seven Whole Days!’ ”

  We all fall out laughing at my misery. When we rejoin, Siobhan is telling us to refill our glasses. “Listen, cuz, you dug under his skin. He showed his vulnerability and willingness to love you for all the craziness in your brain, Aria. Trust me. I’ve endured this shit. I know this shit!”

  “She has a point there, honey.” Shania nods.

  Siobhan smirks. “Then you guys had a restaurant scene straight out of a Harlequin Romance. Aria, y’all dropped feelings. He decided to guard his. Go get your man.”

  “What?” My eyebrows stitch together.

  “Go get all up in his face. I mean that figuratively. You don’t want what you have to be dummied down to ape grunts. Go talk to him. Now.”

  Months ago, I complained about losing a good parking spot near my house. But the two-mile walk along the beach would’ve killed the fire in me. I needed speed tonight. I press the button at the gate of Dominic’s home.