I may or may not be entirely sober myself, but that is beside the point. I know my limits. I don’t think this pendejo does.

“Because these are my favorite boots.” I reach for my cup. It’s a solid wooden thing, mostly full of a passable vintage. “I would hate to get your blood on them.”

From the corner of my eye, I spy movement in the tavern. The man’s friends, no doubt, slinking about to flank us.

The urge to glance at them is so strong it’s almost like an itch. But I refuse to give in to it. I trust the woman sitting to my right to watch my back so I don’t have to.

Ana throws her cards down with a disgusted snort. “I fold.”

Without breaking eye contact with the knife-wielding simpleton before me, I ask, “So soon? But we’ve barely even begun.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Kiki. I can think of better ways to pass the time.”

Something warm and dangerous blossoms in my gut. I love it when Ana calls me Kiki. I love the way the hard consonants sound bouncing around on her tongue.

Only a select few people in the entire Viceroyalty of Peru are allowed to call me Kiki. Ana is one. The other is my older brother, who began to do so when my full name, Eustaquia, proved too much of a mouthful for a three-year-old. My father thought it was cute, so he started using it as well. The usage of that name is a sacred privilege, bestowed only upon the worthy.

Ana leans backs in her chair. I can’t see her hand moving, but I can feel the rustle of fabric beside me. The man’s eyes dart toward her.

I don’t need to see her to know exactly what she looks like in that moment. Her hair a wild tangle of auburn waves. Her skin kissed by the sun and dotted with the most charming freckles I’ve ever come across. Her honey-brown eyes gleaming with the promise of a little good old-fashioned bloodshed.

“Don’t move,” he barks at her.

“Sorry.” Her voice is sweet but not the least bit sorry. “I don’t take orders from gutter scum who entertain themselves by robbing defenseless women. Though I suppose they put up the only fight you stand of winning.”

Rage flits across his face. He pulls the knife away from my throat to brandish it at her.

He realizes the error of his ways as soon as he does it, but that split second of distraction is all the time I need.

I lob my cup at his head, angling it so the wine splashes him right in the eyes.

And just like that, the fight is on.