Page 89 of Corrupting Camille
I turn just in time to catch her as she launches herself into my chest like a missile. I grunt as she nearly knocks the wind out of me.
“Dios mío,” I mutter, wrapping my arms around her. “You trying to break my ribs, terremoto?”
“You deserve it,” she says, pulling back to glare up at me, brown eyes blazing. “You didn’t call. Again.”
I smirk, because she reminds me of Rosa when she’s pissed.
“Been busy.”
“Busy murdering people?” she quips without missing a beat. “Busy laundering money? Huh, tío criminal?”
I laugh, low in my throat. Diego mutters behind her, “Lucía…”
“What? We all know he’s a villain with good eyebrows,” she huffs, planting her fists on her hips. “But you promised me.”
My brow lifts. “Promised you what?”
She slams the glitter binder against my chest like she’s serving a subpoena. “My quinceañera. It’s in two months, pendejo. And if you don’t show up, I will never speak to you again.”
Diego coughs into his cigar. “Language.”
“You’re not invited either if you take his side,” she snaps.
I grin and flip open the binder. It’s chaos, pink sticky notes, glittery pen doodles, a floor plan of a dance hall, and a very dramatic dress sketch that looks like it belongs in a telenovela.
“Damn,” I murmur. “You’re really doing it up, huh?”
She snatches it back. “Of course, I am. I only get one quince. Unless I marry rich and dramatic and throw myself a vow renewal in Italy, which could totally happen, but that’s not the point.”
Before I can answer, two more voices drift from the kitchen door.
“Did she threaten to cancel the quince again?” Reina calls out, amusement thick in her tone.
“She’s been canceling it daily since Tuesday,” Marisol adds, walking barefoot across the tile with a bag of hot chips in hand and not a single ounce of concern on her face.
The twins.
Reina and Marisol. Twenty, stunning, deadly, and fluent in every form of psychological warfare.
They collapse onto the outdoor couch like they’re watching a reality show, Reina raises a glass of something green, Marisol tosses a chip into her mouth.
“Lucía’s been manifesting your arrival,” Reina says, crossing one leg over the other. “Told Mom she had a dream you were going to skip town without promising to wear the tux.”
“What tux?” I ask.
“Dusty rose,” Marisol says, completely serious. “With a matching boutonnière and zero veto power.”
I stare at them. “You’re joking.”
“She’s not,” Lucía says, arms crossed. “You are walking me in. You get the honor.”
I lower myself into the chair again, sighing. “I’ll be there.”
Her eyes narrow. “Swear it.”
“I swear.”
“Swear on your gun.”
