*** Big Danni's POV***
The kitchen smelled of burnt coffee and Marisol’s sofrito—onions caramelizing in guilt and garlic. Saints watched from peeling walls: La Virgen’s gaze followed me, her porcelain face cracked like my resolve. St. Lazarus with his crutches, the paint flaking like scabs—the same saint Mamá prayed to when Papa’s cough turned bloody. Mamá’s knees bruised the church floor, her rosary beads clicking like gunshots as she begged Lazarus to spare Papa’s lungs. He died anyway. Now the saint’s crutches mock me—Nobody walks away clean. Guilt? Naw. Guilt’s for folks who think they got choices. I just got consequences.
As Dru bounds down the stairs in Dragon’s shirt, my coffee turns to ash in my mouth. Look at her. His shirt swallowed her whole, sleeves rolled to her elbows. Th
