“Yeah, but we’re not talking about a gentleman. We’re talking about you.”

His hand flies to his heart as if to clutch it. “You wound me, dear Ana.”

“You make it so easy.”

This banter between us is comfortable. Familiar. Almost like breathing. Kiki may occupy the central place in my heart, but Ale inhabits a not insignificant portion of it.

Before he can respond with his own barb, we are interrupted by a group of his friends. One of them shouts over the din of the brothel. “Ale! Come on!”

Ale pats my knee once more before pushing to stand. He offers his hand to help me up. I take it, grateful. I don’t trust my feet, not after they just betrayed me.

He taps the underside of my chin softly. “Keep your head up. Everything will work out. I promise.”

Heat tickles at the backs of my eyeballs. Before I can say or do anything embarrassing, he’s pulled into the crowd by his friends. He shoots me a soft smile. It chips away at the stone I want my heart to be so that it doesn’t hurt so much. One of his friends throws an arm over Alejandro’s shoulders, tugging him farther away. I dive into the crowd, hoping to lose that kind gaze. I don’t want him to be so nice to me right now. It’ll just make me soft.

Rosalita finds me before I find her. Sweet, kind Rosalita takes one look at my face and pulls me away from the bustling, boisterous crowds. Esmeralda is none too pleased to have her top earner take a break when the night is young, but Rosalita can be very persuasive when she wants to be. The girl could sell silver to a miner sitting on a juicy mountain of ore if she so chose.

We don’t go far. I snag a bottle of a wine from the pantry—swill compared to the Sonza stash—and follow Rosalita up to the roof of the brothel. How she navigates that ladder in a gown is a mystery for the ages.

I waste no time putting a sizable dent in the bottle. I don’t want to think. I don’t want to feel. I don’t want to consider the look on Alejandro’s face as I ran from him. I don’t want to remember the look on Kiki’s when I ran from her.

They can all go to hell.

Rosalita contents herself with dainty, polite sips. One of us should have their wits about them so long as we’re on a roof, I suppose. The last thing I need is to take a spill off the shingles and crack my skull open against the cobblestone below. Or maybe that’s exactly what I need. I remain undecided.