The pistol seems to hum with power as I slip it into my belt. I know it’s in my head, but I feel better with it. More whole, somehow. Like the chunk that was carved out of my heart with Alejandro’s death is just a little bit smaller.

I turn back to Ana, a true smile on my face. I am not the quivering, crying thing crumpled on the floor of my father’s study.

I am Eustaquia de Sonza, and I know what I must do.

“Now I’m ready.”

CHAPTER 16

Ana

Our first stop is Esmeralda’s, but for the first time since I was a child, I find myself unable to just waltz right in.

I stand on the threshold of the main door, staring down the burly man blocking our path. Kiki hovers behind me, a silent shadow. Around us, the Potosí night is alive as it ever is, but the sounds of drunken revelry—and drunken despair—seem distant. Like they exist outside the small bubble formed on this one brothel doorstep.

“Move.” My voice is strong. Steady. It’s the kind of voice that usually results in me getting my way. It’s a voice people don’t want to fuck with. And yet, he doesn’t move.

Rude.

“Customers only.” He leans his shoulder against the frame of the door, filling up the space in a way he probably thinks intimidates me.

I’ve stared down bigger men than him. Scarier men. And I wasn’t afraid of single goddamn one.

“Move,” I say again.

His only response is to clear his throat and spit on the ground at my feet. Not quite at me, but close enough. I step toward him, ready to show him just how much of a mistake that was, but a hand on my arm stills me.

“Please, sir,” Kiki says, her voice as sweet as honey. The amber glow from the sconces bracketing the door gilds the strong lines of her face, softening them so she looks as sweet as she sounds. It’s a mask but a good one. “We’re here to see Rosalita. She’s a friend of ours. Doña Esmeralda can vouch for us. All you need do is ask.”

He chuckles, low and dark, the way men do when they’re thinking something that would make a nun blush. Not that it takes much. I would know. “Here to see Rosalita? You and half of Potosí.”

The way he says it makes me bristle. I know who she is and what she does. There is no shame in it. But he makes it sound like there should be.

“Where’s Esmeralda?”

Before he can open his mouth to respond, a voice comes from behind him. “Miguel, who in the world are you talking to—?”