There was no way she could fail. The thought of a gang war breaking out like the one that still left her waking in the night drenched with sweat, a revival of her own personal nightmare, had her sweating even more.
Grabbing her bag and setting the alarm system, she closed the door behind her, breathing in the warm summer night air.
Frida knew when she’d left LA, that she’d need to be by the ocean, and Miami had been the logical choice. That, and the possibilities for her business. Nowhere better to grow a law firm than in a city built on crime. Stunning as it was here, the underbelly of crime still had its teeth sunk deep into the fabric of Miami.
The night was beautiful, warm, and full of promise as Frida stepped onto the street. Her feet ached from a long day in heels, and she wondered if she had the strength to walk to the food truck a few streets down and grab chorizo empanadas for dinner.
Thoughts of mouth-watering food were slowly pushed aside by a nagging feeling of being followed. Frida cast a glance behind her and saw nothing but couldn’t shake the feeling, quickening her pace.
Her office was in a nice neighborhood, but it was quiet after the sun went down, with little foot traffic, leaving her alone. Reaching into her bag, she held her pepper spray, ready to make any stalker regret his poor decision to target her.
After taking a deep breath, she turned to face whoever had made her inner alarm tingle, but she couldn’t see anyone behind her. The sidewalk was empty as far as she could see.
As she continued walking, it was impossible to shake the feeling tightening her gut.
Her mama always said that you had a gut feeling for a reason and should never ignore it, and she was right. Her first thought was to head straight to her apartment, but she refused to let fear overtake logic, and in any case, if she were being followed, she couldn’t go home. It would be foolish to lead someone to her home, and Frida was a lot of things, but a fool was not one of them. Instead, as planned, she went in the opposite direction, following the enticing smell of grilled meat.
By the time she’d had her second empanada and grabbed a water bottle, her nerves and tiredness had taken a back seat to the wonderfully seasoned meal. Invigorated, Frida removed her beautiful but torturous designer shoes, stuffing them in her bag. Feeling the still-warm concrete beneath her feet, she made her way home. Her mama would freak out if she saw her going barefoot on the sidewalk, but Frida loved the feeling of nothing on her feet.
The tree leaves shimmered above her head as she turned the corner, and the smell of the city mixed with the ocean, making her smile.
Taking the stairs to her second-story apartment two-by-two, and causing her skirt to slide up her thighs, she unlocked the door and let her bag drop by the entrance. As she moved inside, switching on the lights, she was glad to see some cool air had remained in her apartment, despite the heat of the day.
Torn between pouring herself a glass of crisp white wine or having a hot bath, she instead let herself fall on her couch while she gave herself a minute to consider the options.
Now immobile, her brain started working again, trying to slot pieces of evidence together, like puzzle pieces floating in clear liquid. Not enough to make any sense of it all but, despite only being at the beginning of the work, she felt its importance in her bones. Not only as a lawyer but as a person… a link, even indirect, to her own life, to her past.
With renewed energy, Frida was about to get her bag and continue her reading of the case when the wood floor creaked in her home office. Her entire body tensed. Her front door had been locked, her alarm… had her alarm sounded when she’d entered? As the blood rushed in her veins and her ears buzzed, she couldn’t remember. How could she be so careless?
Her hand went to the remote control and she turned on the television, leaving it on a random news channel at a moderate sound level. Only then, did she go to her bag that she’d left in the entrance hall.
Keeping her cool was difficult, but she wasn’t stupid enough to face an intruder on her own. Not when her gun was in her bedroom, past her office.
Her fingers found her cell phone and Frida almost scolded herself for being silly as everything remained quiet. Had she imagined the sound? Had the stress and anticipation of this secretive case messed with her radar?
It made her hesitate, her fingers hovering over the number. Maybe she should make sure she was indeed in danger before alerting anyone.
About to see for herself, the floor creaked again, and this time, her office door opened to a large masked man.
When he turned his head and looked at her, she grabbed her bag and ran like the devil was after her. And he was.
Just one more set. That’s what Malco had been repeating to himself for the last hour. As he worked his body even harder, pushing and pulling, making his muscles sing, he once again realized it wouldn’t be enough.
Nothing had been enough for such a long time; he didn’t remember how it was to feel satisfied and content. Letting the weights drop, he sat on the bench, elbows on his knees, observing rivulets of sweat running from his hands to his fingers, to his thighs and down his knees. As usual, his eyes watched the drops on his right leg, as it slid from his skin to the material of his prosthetic leg.
This time,
