She exchanges a nod with a man standing by a nondescript door in a curiously clean alley. If you didn’t know what you were looking for, you would never know that we were entering one of the better brothels in the city, the sort that catered to men of means who demanded discretion and cleanliness almost as much as they demanded loose women with questionable morals. They liked to slum it with the poor but only so long as it didn’t soil their pretty garments.

As we enter, the coins jingle pleasantly against my side as the purse bounces against my hip. That sensation alone feels like a luxury.

Some people, like Kiki, are born with silver spoons in their mouth.

I am not one of those people.

I was born with nothing. Not silver. Not a spoon. Not even a name. It wasn’t until the señora of the brothel in which I was born—this very one—realized my natural mother had no intention of christening me that I was given one.

Doña Esmeralda gave me a name and a roof over my head and just enough food to survive, which was more than what most get. At least in this part of the city. It was more than a brothel-born bastard could ask for.

The smell of the brothel hits me before my eyes adjust to the candlelit interior. It’s not a bad smell. Pipe smoke, scented powders, and competing fragrances the women wear to set themselves apart from one another. Once upon a time, that smell meant home to me.

The smoke blurs my vision as it permeates the air, sweetened with the palo santo Doña Esmeralda burns. She swears by its invigorating powers and its ability to stimulate the senses.

The brothel is packed to the rafters tonight. Girls spill out into the foyer much like the décolletage spilling out of the tops of their dresses. I tip my hat at them when they see me. I may not live here anymore—and haven’t for years—but they know me. They know I’m not a mark or client. To them, I’m not business. I’m practically family.

Esmeralda’s voice booms over the heads of her girls.