Page 61 of Liar
“Arrangements need to be made regarding you.”
My eyes narrow. “What kind of arrangements?”
He turns and unleashes the full weight of his attention on me. “You’re just discovering life. With no serious obligations and with a world of unlimited opportunities. What do you want, Luciana? What’s the big picture?”
I’m momentarily stunned, yet helpless to look away. Because even in the darkness, his eyes cut deep. Turbulent and troubled and transparent. It’s shocking how he looks at me, in such a raw and open way.
Like what I say matters.
Like he cares.
You.I swallow hard.When I think of the future, I think of you.
“I know what I want.”
“Cazzo,” he softly curses.
Dios. He can read me like a book. And judging by his reaction, it’s a gut-wrenching fantasy, not at all a romance.
I swallow hard, the sting of his simple curse penetrating deeply. “I’ll be attending the Loreto Dance Academy on a dance scholarship. If my lavandería’s profits continue growing, I’ll expand locations. I have plans.”
“And if you were to leave Loreto?”
“I won’t be leaving Loreto.” I think of Diego and grimace. “Not unless it’s by force.”
He studies my expression as if he’s assessing my words.
“My family’s here,” I explain. “Diego, my parent’s graves—”
“And what would your parents want for you?” he bluntly demands.
The unexpectedness of his question elicits a small gasp. Not even Diego would dare bring up our parents. Until this moment, I never considered his question. What would Papi and Mamá want for me?
When I was eight, my mamá surprised me with dance lessons. Her encouragement turned my early passion for movement into reality. At the age of eleven, my father dropped me off at the González sisters’ lavandería and told me it’d do me a world of good to keep my hands busy. I like to think Mamá got my feet moving and Papi my hands. But if they were still alive, what would they expect of me?
The answer, truthfully, isn’t all that difficult. “My parents would encourage me to help people,” I murmur. “Do humanitarian work of some sort. Join Techo, or some other Mexico-based non-profit organization, who assists poor communities with development and social welfare issues. Not be so caught up in myself and to give more than I receive.”
“Your parents sound like they were saints.”
“They were, though it didn’t stop them from being murdered.”
“No. The loss of someone you love, especially like that, is a pain that never fully goes away.” He stares down at the ground, and for the first time in a long time, I see the man I first met. Unguarded. Real.
Troubled.
“Is that why you were away? For a funeral?”
“Yes.”
My eyebrows arch at his admission. “Are you okay?”
“My feelings are irrelevant.”
“Not to me, they’re not.”
His eyes lift to meet mine. So raw. So troubled.
“Who passed?” I dread the answer as soon as the question escapes my lips. Because, what if it’s a woman? What if it’s a woman he loved?
