Petals and Blood
The rain came down like a punishment.
Yara Martinez locked the door to Bloom & Thorn at exactly 9:47 PM, three minutes later than usual because Mrs. Chen had insisted on describing, in painstaking detail, every flower she wanted for her daughter's quinceañera. Yara had smiled through it. She always smiled through it.
Smiling was cheaper than therapy.
The street was empty, slick with October rain that turned the asphalt into black glass. Her apartment was six blocks away. She'd walked it a thousand times, phone in one hand, keys threaded through the fingers of the other like her brother Diego had taught her years ago.
Before he disappeared.
Before he became one more person who proved that loving someone was just another way of setting yourself up to be left behind.
Yara tugged her jacket tighter and started walking, her boots splashing through puddles that reflected the dying neon of the bodega signs. The neighborhood had been gentrifying for years—organic juice bars squatting next to check-cashing places, like vultures waiting for the old world to finish dying.
She made it two blocks before she felt it.
That animal instinct. The one that lives in your spine, that knows when you're being watched.
Yara's grip tightened on her keys. She didn't speed up—that would show fear. Didn't look back—that would confirm she knew. She just kept walking, counting her breaths, listening past the rain.
Footsteps. Two sets, maybe three. Matching her pace.
Her heart kicked against her ribs.
One more block. The deli on the corner stays open until eleven. Get to the light.
She sped up. So did they.
"Yara Martinez?"
The voice came from behind her, casual, like they were old friends. She didn't recognize it. That made it worse.
She ran.
Not toward her apartment—that would lead them home. Toward the intersection, toward witnesses, toward anywhere that had cameras and people and light. Her boots slammed against wet pavement, her lungs burning, her phone slippery in her palm as she tried to unlock it, call 911, do something, anything—
An arm hooked around her waist and yanked her backward into the alley.
Yara's scream died as a hand clamped over her mouth, and she was dragged into the dark between buildings, into the smell of rotting garbage and piss and rain. Her keys fell. Her phone skittered across concrete.
Three men. She could see them now in the fractured light from the street. Two holding her, one standing in front of her with his hands in his pockets like this was a business meeting.
"We're not going to hurt you," the one in front said. He had an accent she couldn't place. Eastern European, maybe. "We just need you to come with us. Your brother—"
"I don't have a brother," Yara spat, the words automatic. Survival instinct.
The man smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "Diego sends his regards."
Cold flooded her veins. Diego. After three years of silence, three years of wondering if he was dead or worse, and now his name was in the mouth of a man holding her in an alley at night.
"I don't know where he is," she said, and it was the truth. "I haven't seen him in—"
"We know. That's not why we're here." The man stepped closer. "You're leverage, querida. And you're coming with us, one way or—"
The gunshot cracked through the air like breaking bone.
The man in front of her jerked, his eyes going wide with surprise before he crumpled. Just dropped, like someone had cut his strings. Blood pooled beneath him, black in the darkness, spreading toward the river of rainwater running through the alley.
The hands holding Yara released her.
She stumbled forward, her mind white with shock, and then the second gunshot fired and the man to her left went down. The third man ran—made it maybe ten feet before a third shot echoed and he fell face-first into a puddle.
Yara pressed herself against the brick wall, her whole body shaking, her breath coming in sharp gasps.
Run. You need to run.
But her legs wouldn't move.
Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Coming from the mouth of the alley.
A figure emerged from the rain, backlit by the streetlight, and for a moment Yara couldn't see his face—just the silhouette of broad shoulders, the glint of something metal in his hand.
A gun. Still raised.
He walked past the bodies like they were trash bags, his expensive shoes splashing through blood-tinted water, and when he finally stepped into the thin light filtering from the street, Yara's heart stopped.
He was beautiful in the way a knife was beautiful. Sharp. Dangerous. Dark hair slicked back from a face that could've been carved from marble—all angles and shadows, with eyes so dark they looked black. He wore a suit that probably cost more than her rent, and it didn't have a single speck of blood on it.