Diablo Inside
Amarie Avant
Edited by
Melissa Harrison
Copyright © 2020 by Nicole Dunlap as Amarie Avant. All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. All characters in this book, including those inspired by real people, are fake. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means–electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other–except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
All rights reserved
Created with Vellum
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
83. Extended Epilogue: Aria
84. Extended Epilogue: Dominic
85. Alternate Ending
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Chapter One
LeAnna (Aria) Jones
Raw fear licks the nape of my neck. With each breath, I drown in the past—an ice cream truck’s melody; laughter; the Oldies, family reunion music, funneling through my ears. I hesitated, watching my younger sister clasp the hand of a stranger whose smile outshined the Texas sun. They were going for chocolate sundaes and coming right back . . .
I warn myself to touch something, return to reality. My clammy palms press against the cold, veiny-marble countertop. ReAnna and her abductor disappear, rich opulence returns.
“Aria, don’t let the past screw with your head,” I tell myself. Massive slate-gray walls and custom everything surrounds me. The kitchen sliding glass door, which frames a breathtaking view of Miami Beach by day, is veiled in nightfall.
The top floor of a sky-rise luxury apartment is where I call home. It’s the only dwelling on this level. My poor, rich roommate—emphasis on either term—has never worked a day in her life. When Miranda’s funds decreased, she sought a roomy. Countless Cosmopolitans, couture dresses, and posh lounges are her religion on a Saturday night.
Adrenaline courses through my veins. It heightens my senses, particularly, my hearing. I catch the faint footsteps somewhere in the otherwise secluded apartment. I call out, “Hello?”
So, if someone responds to the greeting, you’re screwed, Aria.
Fisting a chef knife, I add a tentative threat: “I have a . . . gun!”
My fingers drag through my tresses, tangling in thick roots, desperate for a touch-up.
Faint steps echo out. I stammer, “Miranda, if that’s you . . .” You will see the side of me I hide from everyone else.
Barefoot on chilly, opulent limestone, I navigate through the vast expanse of the home. I stop in the hallway, which leads to my side. Miranda kept the balcony wrapping around the north, east, and south side of the building. In comparison, I possess a lone terrace, perfect for early mornings in my art room. Light bleeds from that very door.
Jutting the knife downward, I snatch open the door, hoping to catch Messy Miranda. She’s so worried about my ability to pay rent. Yet, I’ve caught her snooping around my area since signing the lease a half year ago.
“Miran—” My gaze collides with olive-green gems. A case of anxiety whisks me to my first obsession. No amount of therapy ever remedied the guilt. Older siblings have an unwritten obligation. I failed ReAnna.
During some flashbacks, I lose sight of ReAnna and her abductor in the commotion of a hot summer’s day. Or I freeze. The ending never changes. ReAnna’s never to be seen or heard from again.
Touch reality or faint. My seesawing vision slows as my fingers clash against the ornate, glossy doorframe. Exuding a false confidence, I demand, “How did you get in here?”
Despite my past, I’m not crazy. Miranda draws imaginary lines and counts beans. Her fixation on division may have made me anal, too. This is my haven. And the attractive Cuban dominating my art room doesn’t belong here.
He’s thick. A dangerous kind of thick that can bulldoze straight through me. He’s taller than my musings from afar. I’ve stalked him at a distance this entire time. A leather jacket outlines his imposing shoulders and biceps, tapering down to a narrow waist. Dark-wash denim encases muscular legs and a scrumptious ass. I know; I’ve seen that ass from afar. He’s the entire package, every physical attribute on any woman’s list. The sight of him heats the adrenaline already coursing through me.
His face is flawless deception: angelic, devilish, summer-kissed skin, and a sharp jaw. Stubble accentuates a beautiful, hostile mouth. It sends goosebumps flying over my arms. The Cuban has ruined the lives of women with that mouth. He’s the perfect predator.
“I said, ‘how did you get in here?’ ” Never mind the delirious question of how, as opposed to why, I’m astonished I can utter a single word.
At my standing desk, the Cuban picks up a photo. The image captures an attractive vessel. Him. He flicks the picture of himself toward me. It dashes at my feet. Then another and another.
My first obsession fucked my mind over—ReAnna’s disappearance.
My second fixation is piling up at my feet.
Photos glide across the floor—all of him. The camera lens worshiped his angles: his face, his chiseled chest. The Cuban god. If he plans on flinging all the photos at me, it will take him forever.
“Those are my personal property,” I grit out.
The Cuban pu
lls on a rolled cigarette. A sweet, musky scent snakes out of captivating lips as he plucks another photo. He flicks it into my general direction.
“They are mine!”
“Are they, LeAnna? Or shall I call you, Aria?” His warm, alluring tone puts top-shelf whiskey to shame. In quick strides, he walks with heavy-booted steps over renderings of his face. He stops in front of a canvas painting, which had taken an entire week to create from another photo. The Cuban snatches it off the easel, staring at the creation of himself. My panties percolate at the sound of a low, angered growl building in his throat.
Bold brushstrokes match his swagger. I’d spent more money on gold and mocha pallets to paint him in these past months than I had in my entire undergrad at NYU. There are a thousand renditions of his photos rendered my favorite medium—paint—in this room. So, if he plans to pick them all over, that’ll take forever too.
I don’t mind forever, as long as he doesn’t murder me.
My legs take a wider stance as he takes another drag from his handmade cigarette. Then, without a word, he shoves his fist into the center of the framed canvas. “This your property, Aria, sí?”
“You need to leave—”
“Or what, Aria?” His Latin accent plays my name sensual, slow. I’m painfully aware of how enthralling the devil is. Though his stance is threatening, I remind myself not to . . . fear him. Never mind the natural reaction, desire.
Focusing on another painting, he lights one side of the acrylic paper with his cigarette. Cinders curl into an insignificant flame. Letting the scrap fall, the Cuban crushes the furious little spark with his boot.
“We should tell the authorities how you stalked me. Took photos, painted me without consent, sí!”
“You wouldn’t dare!” I snarl.
He taps 9-1-1 into his cellphone. He poises his finger over the call button, and my jaw clamps shut. “Let’s do this, mami. You say I’m breaking and entering.” His chuckle is a low rumble in his colossal chest. “This room depicts something else altogether.”
Flushed with heat, I level my gaze on the notorious killer. “You’re the stalker. Murd—” My voice breaks. He’s a murderer who collects beautiful women.
As he inhales his cigarette, smoke clouds the magnificent structure of his face. “Aria, you’re gorgeous, deranged. Not a compelling combination. This will end badly for you.”
“You’re a sick fuck, Dominic Ángel Alvarez. You know my name? I know you!” I grit out, finding the voice that abandoned me when ReAnna vanished. “You’re—”
My body is planted against the wall. Hunter green eyes glare down at me. “What were you saying? Repeat yourself, Aria!”
“Kill me,” I threaten. “More paintings of you are here. More photos than you can conceive of finding after disposing of my body.”
“Kill you?” Dominic calls me crazy beautiful, serenading me with an imaginary Spanish guitar. The backs of his knuckles run like soothing leather across my cheek.
When I tremble, he stops murmuring sweet words in my ear. He rubs his index and thumb finger together. “You’re crying, Aria. Look at those big brown eyes, so surprised. You weren’t aware?”
He knots his fingers into my hair, baring my throat and vulnerable pulse to his lips. More Spanish words float from his devious mouth, which he presses along my cheek. I become attuned to my tears. This is how the other women die, so caught up in the rapture of him; they lose themselves.
As I’ve said, I know these things.
I’ve watched, waiting for Dominic to break another pretty soul—because I’d pounce before he consumed her.
His gaze dances over mine, spearing me against the wall. “You begging me to tear you apart, Aria?”
“No,” I whimper.
“You’re crying. I have yet to rip you to shreds. Should I break you, chula?”
My heart shutters to a stop. There was one thing in this world I obsessed over before the sight of Dominic Ángel Alvarez. The disappearance of ReAnna.
For the rest of my life, I’ll obsess over her. Had I not breathed life before her, would the shame claw so deep? It’s too late for questions, too late to save my twin. Now, I’ve vowed to rescue Dominic’s women.
“Mami, should I show you what happens to bad girls, sí?”
“Try me!” I cling to convictions I never knew I had. This second obsession of mine won’t extend as long as the first one. Justice will be served with my death. Aside from the photos and sketches, I have notes, and a virtual journal set on a timer. The media calls him El Santo. El Diablo’s more appropriate. Dominic’s balls are in a vice grip, and he doesn’t know it. Fuck spending another breath on this earth. My life can end now.
Chapter Two
Aria
Six months ago
“Nunaya damn business,” was the first phrase, and only instance, in which I’d heard Gramps cuss. He said it in the heat of the search for ReAnna. People would ask my grandparents if I was the other girl.
The sister.
The twin.
The one who failed ReAnna, their faces read. Though my shrink refuted the statement for years, I’ve silently lived by it. I vow not to be a failure again.
The night after ReAnna disappeared, anything my mom touched, she beat me with. “The police don’t look too hard for little black girls. It’s your fault we will never see ReAnna again,” she declared.
On occasion, “your fault” claws at my ears too.
My family crumbled a few weeks into the search. Momma broke first, Dad next. Before the tragedy, he was the kind of dad that you perched your toes on his as you dance, and you’re so young, naïve, you feel like a little princess. Also, you wonder if you’re crushing his toes no matter how much of a giant he looks while wrapping his arms around you.
Dad always promised to be there. He said I wasn’t to blame. Though not as many times as my therapist drilled in how my actions hadn’t made him an alcoholic.
My grandparents took me in about a month into the search. But it was years after my grandparents relocated us from San Antonio to Miami that I learned Dad died a drunk.
There was no more “nunaya damn business” from Gramps. Still, his token cuss word became my life, until now.
I stand before the mirror, shoving my face into a smile. It looks psychotic, like the Joker in any movie where he failed at slaying Batman.
My roasted almond complexion glows despite days of working in a dark room. The balcony has become my solace since renting this place for less than a month. It’s my only source of vitamin D when I refuse to leave home.
I push my hair around. The crinkled tresses fall against my cheeks and tickle at the edges of my thick lips, prompting an almost smile.
My cellphone buzzes in my linen pants. I glance at it. Biting my lip, I contemplate not answering Roslyn, my token friend. This is a social call, and I’m a real-life hermit. I respond with an uncertain, “Hey?”
“Hey, you? Get your ass down here, Ari’.”
I huff. We met in junior high. She dropped bits of everyone’s names, including mine, always dragging me to the next pointless introduction.
I snigger. “I left my house yesterday because of you; no, thank you!”
“So? Your ass is leaving today. Zumba, first. Later, the skirts I’ve selected will show half our ass cheeks at the—”
I hang up. Seconds later, I wait for her call. We’re pros at tug-of-war. Roslyn is the woman I wish I could live vicariously through—wish—because she forces me to live. She’s bold enough to breathe life into me once a week.
The phone screen dims. Oh crap. My new roommate, Miranda, abhors guests. The doorman has strict orders from Miranda, but he also has eyes.
The Puerto Rican Roslyn is the magic of all Latina and African beauty. I move away from the mirror in my loft bathroom. I pass the Pinterest worthy clawfoot tub and through a bedroom that is also dream goals to Pinners.
The elevator to our apartment is only accessible by us. I stand against a pillar vas
e, then shuffle away from it. Miranda has her requests. Don’t touch this; don’t even breathe on that.
I glance across the way to the double doors of the witch’s room. She’s here. Vampires sleep in the daytime and suck . . . certain things . . . come night.
The elevator doors whisk open. My hand clamps on Roslyn’s red lips. “I’m sorry, but you have the biggest mouth.” I lead her toward my hallway. Once there, I let her go and start toward my art room.
“You’re a guest in your own home, who has overstayed her welcome.”
“Ros, cut it out. My lease is for an entire year.”
“Oh, did I mention you pay enough to have my familia’s familia here?” Roslyn stalks toward the door, whisking it open. “Demand respect. Like I demanded you to be my friend in middle school.”
Her hips sashay into the neat room. A few empty canvases are around the perimeter. Still life photos hang on the walls. I close the door. “I wasn’t some unwanted puppy or anything.”