Page 57 of Love Me Darkly
She fell silent again and this time it was tense. Mateo searched her face, finding that she seemed anxious again.
“Korenic will be back soon,” she said eventually.
“I know.”
“He won’t be happy about those raids.”
“I’m counting on it. If he’s pissed off, he’ll act rashly. He’ll make mistakes. Make it easier for me to crush him.”
She shivered and he held her tighter, stilling her. “You really think you can do that?”
“My track record says I can and will. But enough about that. Did you eat dinner? I could order something in.”
“That sounds amazing, actually. I haven’t eaten since this morning.”
Mateo frowned. He didn’t like that. “We’d better do something about that. But don’t let me hear you haven’t been eating properly again. Three squares a day, Melody.”
She gave him a sheepish smile. “Yes, sir.”
Mateo grunted, reaching for his phone and pulling up a delivery app. “Now, what’ll it be, baby girl?”
He sat against the headboard, and she leaned against him, watching him scroll the options. She chose a Thai place that was open late, then disappeared into the bathroom after placing her order, returning a few minutes later with a fresh scent of soap and wearing his white bathrobe. Before climbing back into bed, she took up his flashlight, then sat straddling his hips. Shining the light on his chest, she grinned.
“Now, it’s my turn to play find-the-tattoo. You’ve been hiding some body art from me.”
Mateo stiffened as she illuminated the portrait of Mari. He had forgotten he wasn’t wearing a shirt until that moment, and suddenly wished he could cover himself. A wave of something sickening washed over him, and he couldn’t figure out whether it was guilt, shame, or fear. She traced a finger over the tattoo, over Mariana’s face and the wreath of marigolds beneath her image. She swirled her fingers over the text he had requested be scrawled underneath it—a Spanish phrase.
Mi pequeña estrella. My little star.
He had called Mariana that often, because that was exactly what she had been—his light in a dark, fathomless sky. A beacon of hope and peace that had drawn him home every time.
“What happened to her?” she asked, laying her hand flat over the tattoo. “She was beautiful.”
“She … died,” he hedged. “A year ago.”
Her face crumbled, as if his words had broken her heart. “Oh, Mateo … I’m so sorry.”
He reached up to cup her face. “So am I.”
To his relief, she didn’t ask how it had happened. She simply lifted the flashlight and resumed her inspection. She took another look at the tattoo on his left bicep.
“Army tat,” she murmured.
“Battlefield cross,” he corrected.
“Very manly.”
She swung the light to his other arm. Inclining her head, she leaned in to take a closer look. A black and gray shaded image of Lady Justice took up almost the entire arm from his shoulder to his elbow, but it wasn’t a traditional depiction. The surface of her skin was cracked as if she’d been tipped over and then set right again. The sword in her hand was coated with blood at the tip—the only color in the piece—and dripped into a puddle at her feet. Her blindfold was ripped and hanging loose on one side, revealing an eye that dripped tears.
“Wow,” she whispered. “The detail is incredible. It’s amazing work.”
“I was lucky to find a good artist back home in Cali.”
“I didn’t know you were a California boy,” she said with a little laugh.
“Boyle Heights, East L.A.,” he said, not without a little pride. The culture of his urban neighborhood had shaped him, instilling in him fierce respect for the place he’d grown up. “My mom and a large chunk of my family still live there.”
“How did you end up in D.C.?”
