Page 18 of Morena
But Morena stayed. Her laughter coiled low at my ear, wrapping me tight in chains I would never be able to break.
7“Bravo, guapo,”she purred, cold fingers stroking my jaw.“Now you know. You will never fuck without me again.”
“Fuck.” I tore myself away from Isabella, stumbling back.
“Wow,8papi chulo,” Isabella said with a breathless laugh. “What got into you?” She stepped closer, but I flinched away.
“Leave.” The word came out sharp.
Her face twisted. She yanked her clothes from the floor. “You are pathetic, Matteo. My father was right.”
She pulled her legs into her jeans, fastening them with jerks. “You do not deserve to be loved.”
The words hit hard. I had always been lonely, always pushing people away when they came too close. The walls I built kept everyone on the outside. She had used me before, taken what she needed, and I had let her. Now that I no longer chased her, suddenly I was the problem.
Why does it have to be so complicated? If you made a promise, please hold onto it. Why is keeping one so impossible? Maybe I couldn’t because I couldn’t hold onto anything. I start things and abandon them. I run in circles, haunted by everything I leave behind.
And Morena, her ghost, her story, had become the one thing I wanted to finish. Maybe it was fear. Fear I would fail someone again.
1. Thank you.
2. Sad eyes.
3. Uncle.
4. You know you are my favorite game.
5. Give me everything, Daddy.
6. Now.
7. Good, handsome.
8. Handsome Daddy (slang)
V.
Isabellaleft,andIforced myself to work.
I tore out the wooden boards someone had laid across the staircase and started from the beginning. The tools rattled in my hand. Each strike against the rotten wood brought a stench of damp and decay to the back of my throat.
This time I worked slowly. I was more careful. I could feel her watching from somewhere, but she did not show herself. And inside the house was just silence.
The last of the rotted planks gave way under the hammer. I scraped the rest clean, sanding down to the bone of the structure until only healthy wood was left.
The air in the room warmed; there was no longer the icy breath of her presence, but the sticky heat of summer. Sweat trickled down my spine, salt burning into the scratches on my arms. For once, it was only me and the work. No mirrors. No voices. No Morena. Just me. Like it always had been.
One by one, I laid new boards into place, driving nails deep into the wood. I smoothed them down, brushed, polished, andpainted. By the time I reached the final step, the staircase stood whole again. No more splintered wood, no more death traps. Whatever secrets were below, now they could stay buried.
I wiped the grime onto my shirt and leaned against the banister. I couldn’t move for a good minute from exhaustion. From the street outside, the bell struck noon. It was time to go back to see Carlos.
I packed the tools, closed the door behind me, and stepped into the street.
From the corner of my eye, I caught a flicker of movement. A faint laugh came too close, though no one was there.
She knew I would be back.
Carlos sat at the table, his mother across from him. She stared at a single spot on the wall, eyes fixed as if something held her there. Her food sat untouched, already cold. Carlos had not touched his either.
