Page 104 of No Greater Oblivion

“Information.”

“About what?”

“What do you want to know?”

Morales and I walk for about a half hour. We pass a bakery during our stroll and I make him pay for the apple pie and bread I want because I left my purse in the house.

The last year has been a whirlwind for me but that doesn’t mean I’ve been twiddling my thumbs in New York. I’ve spent this whole time surrounded by wealthy, powerful people and with that experience comes information. A favor from Alejandro would’ve been valuable but not nearly as much as a favor from me. No one is as deeply entrenched in the underbelly of this city’s organized crime system as I’ve been this last year. Morales must hammer me with a hundred questions by the time we get back to my place but I promised him thirty minutes and that’s all he’s getting.

“Wait, so does that mean you know where Sanmartín⁠—”

“Morales.” I stop at my front stoop and drop my cigarette on the concrete, putting out the lit end with the tip of my Rene Caovillas. “Your half hour is up.”

“I should get an extra five minutes for the small fortune you made me spend in the bakery.”

I dip my hand into the bag and reach for the receipt. Then tuck it into the front pocket of his coat and give his chest a little pat. “Write it off. Call it a business expense.”

“Dahlia—”

“Technically my tax dollars paid for it.”

His eyes narrow a bit. “Do you even pay taxes?”

I cast a smirk over his shoulder as I make my way up the front stoop and open the front door. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Morales says my name again as if to reprimand me but I swing the front door shut with my hips and flip the lock. A few seconds later, I watch him let out a frustrated huff in the cold before taking off down the street.

Coat abandoned in the foyer, I make my way to the kitchen. Music plays from the speaker on the marble counter and the window is open to help alleviate the heat radiating from the stove. Lyss is arguing with Alejandro, waving a cutting knife in front his face, while he gives her a confounded look, repeatedly gesturing toward the potatoes she must’ve been cutting. Doña Ana eventually swoops in to take the knife and resumes cutting instead.

“All I’m saying is they were perfect cubes.”

“It took you that long to cut a bunch of potatoes?” he says.

“Excuse me for trying to make dinner a little aesthetic!”

He just keeps staring at her like she’s spoken a language he doesn’t understand. “It’s ajiaco.”

“Ignore him,” I tell him Lyss. “He doesn’t know what an aesthetic is. He once mistook having a follower count as me being in a cult.”

He turns on me. “What other conclusion was I supposed to come to when you said you were ‘losing followers’ and wanted to ‘boost’ your following, how does that not sound like a cult?”

“You also thought Facebook was American slang for passport.”

Lyss lets out an abrupt howl of laughter. She doubles over and has to grip the edge of the island to stay steady.

He lifts a finger. “That was lost in translation. English isn’t my first language.”

Lyss continues to laugh and her minor fit brings her to her knees. Doña Ana’s shoulders shake with silent laughter as she tries to keep a straight face while cutting potatoes.

“English isn’t your first language?” I echo, mimicking his accent.

Alejandro isn’t easily flustered or embarrassed but I don’t miss the way his cheeks heat and color. His accent isn’t heavy or prominent. In fact, it’s subtle enough to be difficult to discern. Anyone listening will immediately know he isn’t a native English speaker but it’d be hard for anyone who wasn’t a native Spanish speaker to pinpoint his accent correctly.

I bite back a smile and drop the pink box on the counter. “I brought dessert.”

Previous remark forgotten, Alejandro’s hazel eyes narrow to slits.

“You did not just bring a store-bought pie into my kitchen.”