Page 62 of No Sweeter Poison

“That’s all right.” He bites into the pomegranate he was cutting earlier. “We can work on it later.”

Something across the restaurant catches Bertha’s attention and she signs to her brother. Moises turns around and sighs before getting up. “I’ll be right back.”

While Moises makes his way to the only other patrons on the other side of the restaurant who showed up about an hour ago, I lift my glass to my lips and gulp down mouthfuls of cold water. When the ice reaches my teeth, I bite down quickly, hoping the sharp coolness will alleviate the flush of heat in my face.

“You all right over there?”

I kick Alejandro under the table. He smirks.

Before he can say anything smart, his phone rings. He reaches into his pocket and turns the ringer off, almost abandoning it on the far corner of the table, when the name flashing across the screen catches his attention. A crease forms between his furrowed brows and the shock of tension that ripples across his features immediately has me on edge. He puts down the knife and pomegranate and answers.

“Narvaez.”

A beat passes and the color of his eyes shifts from hazel to black within the seconds, the pupils nearly swallowing the irises whole, Alejandro slides out of the booth and retreats to the corner, but not before I hear him say, “What can I do for you, O’Neil?”

Moises returns while Alejandro is still on the phone, looking slightly exasperated. “They’ve been here an hour and the only thing they keep asking for is more coffee,” he says, signing simultaneously to his sister. “You’d think they’d buy a coffee machine for that.”

I chuckle. “Sometimes people want to get out of the house.”

“Maybe,” he replies, attention shifting between me and his sister. “But these two guys aren’t regulars. Never seen them before.”

“Really?”

Moises nods and he lifts his hands to sign something but Alejandro returns. I notice how he puts his hand on Moises’s shoulder and purposefully stands with his back to the other patrons.

“Dahlia, grab your things and let’s go.”

“Is—”

“Don’t say anything. They could be reading your lips.” With a single fluid movement, he reaches into his suit jacket and produces a revolver, which he discreetly drops in the front pocket of Moises’s apron. Both hands occupied, he turns to Bertha and annunciates each word, careful not to speak too quickly. “Take some of the plates back to the kitchen and pretend you’re cleaning. Don’t come out until someone comes to get you.”

From the corner of my eye, I sense movement. The two men across the room are watching us.

“Alejandro’s right.” I plaster on a smile. “It’s getting late, and we have plans with his sister tonight.”

Moises catches on quickly. “I’ll get the check.”

Both Moises and Bertha make their discreet exits. Alejandro puts his knee on the edge of the booth bench and leans forward—so close that for a moment, I almost think he’ll kiss me. Instead, he runs his fingers through my hair, the touch intimate, and as red waves slip from his grasp, they conceal the bottom half of my face.

“There’s a gun in the glove compartment. Get in and start driving. Don’t look back no matter what you hear.”

I cover his hand with mine and climb out of the booth, angling our bodies so that neither of our faces can be seen from across the room. “But—”

“Do as I say. Call Diego, he’ll be able to track your phone.”

My grip on his hand tightens. “I’m not leaving you—”

“La cuenta?”

We both look over. One of the patrons in the booth across the room waves his hand at Moises while the other has his gaze locked on the two of us.

Alejandro spins around and with a hand on the small of my back, ushers me towards the exit. “Go ahead and start the car. I’ll be there in a second.”

I watch the scene unfold in slow motion.

Bertha can’t carry all the plates back to the kitchen in one trip. She stumbles against the counter and leaves some behind, the sound of clattering bowls and plates catching everyone’s attention. Abandoning the dishes, she scrambles to the backdoor and disappears inside the kitchen but Alejandro never breaks his stride. He stops at the register and extends a credit card to Moises who swipes it on a machine. I take calm, steady steps towards the exit, the clicking of my heels against the tiles the only sound in the otherwise quiet restaurant.

One man rises to his feet and reaches into the breast pocket of his suit. The other wipes his mouth with a napkin.