This Darkened Street (Georgette)

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

Since Carmen had been back in Paris, Santiago’s second had been acting weird. The shipments were all going relatively smoothly, so he had no idea what had her so bent out of shape. He’d asked her if she ran into an ex in Malaga or if it was some hormonal, female bullsh*t. She glowered and muttered, “No”. It was vexing, to say the least, but Santiago had other, bigger problems to worry about than an out-of-sorts right-hand gal.

“You can’t raise prices without consulting me, mamon!” he hissed, shoving the smaller man against the brick wall of the alley they now stood in. “In case you’ve forgotten, all decisions come through me.”

“I was just thinkin’ of you, Jefe!” the guy stammered.

“The hell you were,” Santiago said softly, as though sweet-talking a small and clueless child. “Pocketing the extra cash for yourself is greed. Plain and f*cking simple.”

The guy –Juan “Juancho” Lopez – was one of Santiago’s dealers. A middling-ranked member of the gang, Juancho had sloe black eyes and a bald head that would have been intimidating on a less baby-faced man. He was a good dealer, or he had been. Word on the street was that Juancho had raised his prices. Made them less competitive, since supply was plentiful and independent dealers were all over Paris. College kids in need of a quick buck dealt prescription drugs as well as the green stuff and the hard sh*t. Anyone who wanted a cheap high could find one. Las Gardunas needed to stay competitive.

And it would have been one thing if Juancho raised prices out of necessity. But it was just filthy greed. It didn’t benefit anyone except Juancho. Santiago spat in the younger man’s eyes and released him. Juancho crumbled to the ground, temporarily blinded. Santiago kicked him hard in the ribs; hard enough to hear the crack.

“That’s a warning,” he said, still softly. “We have an agreed price. Stick to it. Next time, it’ll be your skull I kick.”

Juancho groaned and Santiago pulled him to his feet roughly. The ribs were cracked, not broken. If Santiago had been wearing his steel-toed boots, it would have been a very different situation altogether.

“Ice them,” said Santiago. “Bind them. And don’t be such a cry baby about it. I could have punctured your lung if I wanted to.”

Juancho went stumbling off into the night and Santiago waited until he was alone to lean against the wall. No one ever thought that this was what they’d spend their life doing, but here he was. Part time private eye, full time gang leader. El Jefe. It was bullsh*t, but it was his life. He had to get back to the office. He’d told Georgette he was working late and he didn’t want to disappoint his tragona tonight. Again. Last time he’d used the “Working late” excuse, she’d waited in his office in red lingerie, sexting him while he talked weapons shipments with Carmen and a couple of the guys. By the time he’d gotten back to the office to meet her, there was a note on his desk that said, “Sweet dreams. I got bored waiting.” He owed her. Big time. And they both knew it. He’d go in a few seconds. He needed to calm down, to stop shaking with rage, before he came to her.

El Jefe was a different man than Santiago Ortiz, after all. And for Georgette, he was meant to be a lover, not a fighter. Santiago shut his eyes. His shoulders quivered as adrenaline coursed through his system.

Just one more minute, he told himself. You can’t spend any more time than that angry in this alleyway.

Because the longer he stood here, the better target he was making himself out to be.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Georgette Duguay

When Santiago texted her that he would be working late, it took every ounce of strength in Georgette not to release the scream that had begun scratching away at the back of her teeth. This was the second time this week he had cancelled a date because he had to work late and Georgette’s patience was wearing so thin it was almost translucent. She walked from the subway to the Detective Agency, still her shiny black heels, which clicked on the asphalted parking lot as little stones and pieces of pavement rolled around under her shoe precariously. Maybe she’d surprise him at work and he could conveniently have to cancel his scheduled consolation. But as she approached the building, Santiago left, locking the door behind him.

Georgette froze and watched him get in his car. Where on this planet would work take him that was so important that he had to bail again on their date? Georgette’s blood boiled, but as he pulled out of the parking lot. She hailed a taxi.

“I’ll pay you 100 euros if you follow that black car and don’t ask questions.” The driver did as he was told silently and Georgette was true to her word. He took a turn down a side street and Georgette watched as the buildings got gradually smaller and darker, as roofs presented bald spots where shingles should have been and empty holes where windows once were. A gunshot went off and Georgette jumped at the sound of it. Traffic slowed to a snail’s pace and Georgette told to driver to stop. “I’ll just walk from here, thank you.”

She saw Santiago’s car turn a corner and she chased after it, hopping from shadow to shadow until she stopped to watch him get out and throw a man against a brick wall. He spoke in hushed tone, spitting Spanish in the man’s face. From the little Spanish she knew, she heard he was talking about money, that Santiago was in charge and it seemed that this man had forgotten that. He let the man go and gave him a swift kick to the ribs. Georgette heard an awful crack, but didn’t flinch. Her eyes were fixed on Santiago who, for the first time, looked terrifying. How was this the same man that whispered lilting Spanish in her ear while she removed a man’s liver for examination? How was this the same man whose hot kisses burned her so beautifully and left purple marks in their place? He looked not like Santiago at all, but like stranger.

He locked eyes with her for a second and she gasped, pressing herself as tightly to the wall around the corner as she could, hoping the shadow was adequate cover.
She was screwed. And not in the way she had planned on tonight.

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

A shuffling sound behind him sent a tight chill up Santiago’s spine. A person. He was being watched. He didn’t think twice before rounding the corner and grabbing the intruder by the throat, lifting them off their feet. He shouldn’t have wasted time hanging around after Juancho left. It had been stupid. And now it was kill or be killed. He squeezed. It wasn’t until he’d slammed the intruder against the nearest dumpster that he realized his mistake.

“Georgette?!”

Her large, dark eyes were wide with something – surprise or maybe even fear – and her already pale skin was losing color fast. Santiago’s grip slackened on her airway immediately.

“Querida,” he murmured, apologetically. “You startled me.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Georgette Duguay

Safe in the shadow of her wall, Georgette tried to put her thoughts in order. Santiago was here, on this side of town, kicking the sh*t out of someone he was in charge of. Money was involved and only one solution came to her mind: drugs. Santiago was a drug dealer.

The shadow grew bigger, and with it, so did Georgette’s eyes as a hand grasped her throat and she was lifted off the ground and tossed like a ragdoll against a dumpster. She gasped for air, her lungs aching as they struggled to inflate. She looked into her attacker’s face and she felt her face pale.

Santiago was next to unrecognizable as he held her there, his fingertips digging into her flesh with anger. Her eyes grew more in recognition of him and she searched for some ounce of the Santiago she knew in his blazing eyes. This was not the sort of rough she was used to, not the sort of passion she craved from him.

“Georgette?!” Santiago’s grip slackened and she slid down the dumpster, something in her burning. It wasn’t fear, for fear was too weak a flame that it would have gone out by now. It was anger that flickered in her and she glowered up at Santiago as she rubbed the place on her neck where his grip had been.

“Querida, you startled me.”

“I startled you? I’m not the one with my hands clenched around your throat.” She pulled herself up and brushed herself off. “What the f*ck is going on here? You tell me now, Santiago, because this was not how I wanted to spend our evening.” She felt at the tender spots of her neck and suppressed a wince. She needed an explanation and she needed it quick or she was going to turn on her heel and bolt down that alley way and that would be the end.

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

Santiago wasn’t the type to hit a woman. He never had been. And yet, he had almost choked his girlfriend to death in a dark alley way. The truth was, Georgette hadn’t just startled him; he’d startled himself. Shocked himself. What the f*ck kind of guy was he turning into anyways?

“I startled you?” Georgette howled. “I’m not the one with my hands clenched around your throat.” She pulled herself up and brushed herself off. “What the f*ck is going on here? You tell me now, Santiago, because this was not how I wanted to spend our evening.”

“Me either,” he said. And it was true. He hadn’t wanted to spend his evening kicking the sh*t out of one of his own and trying to strangle his girlfriend. And now, he wasn’t looking forward to the talk he and Georgette were on the verge of having. The last woman he’d gotten involved with while in the gang was one he hadn’t heard from in a long time. Santiago sometimes wondered if she was dead. It was a fate he didn’t want Georgette to meet. And a reality he never wanted her to face. He wondered if lying would get him anywhere other than in jail.

Not that honesty had ever served him well in situations like this.

“I thought you were someone else,” he told her. “There are all sorts of thugs out here who would love to see a guy like me dead. If I had known it was you, I would never have raised a hand to you. I’m… I’m sorry.”

Santiago couldn’t remember the last time he’d apologized to anyone at all. It had to have been years at this point. As the leader of Las Gardunas, he never had to say “I’m sorry” anymore. He had forgotten how hard those words were to say, especially when they were ineffective bandages for a gaping wound.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Georgette Duguay

“Me either,” Santiago said and Georgette stopped trying to wrench herself free from him. The sincerity in his voice made her pause and she looked at him. At last, he was Santiago again. There was no blood lust in his eyes, no hatred on his breath. Perhaps, on this darkened street, Santiago was back.

“I thought you were someone else,” Santiago said, letting go over her entirely. If she so desired, now was her chance to run. But her feet were lead and the more she tried to move them, the more they resisted.

“Someone else?” Georgette scoffed. “Who would I be?”

“There are all sorts of thugs out here who would love to see a guy like me dead. If I had known it was you, I would never have raised a hand to you. I’m… I’m sorry.”

Any anger that Georgette felt toward Santiago melted away into cooling resignation and sharp reality. Santiago, for the first time since she’d met him, said he was sorry. Santiago, who dominated every space he entered, who seemed to have no regrets or hesitation had apologized to Georgette. She deserved it, that was for sure, but the words threw her off. They sounded alien coming out of Santiago’s mouth. She wondered for a minute what those words would taste like and she smiled at the thought and at the gesture Santiago extended. It must have been big for him to apologize and Georgette appreciated that and worried what would happen if she didn’t accept.

“You’re sorry.” She said. It wasn’t a question and it wasn’t a statement. It sat in the ambiguity of thought process. She nodded slowly. “Okay. Thank you.”

She glanced over his shoulder to the man he had kicked who was just now getting up and struggling to bolt down the alleyway, finally disappearing into the shadows until he was just a speck of light reflected off his bald head.

“If there are so many people down here who want you dead, why are you here? What the hell are you doing?” Santiago’s explanation was murky at best, jumbled at worst and Georgette was trying to piece it all together out of some habitual curiosity and some well-deserved peace of mind.

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

“You’re sorry,” Georgette echoed. Santiago searched her eyes for doubt. Though there was none there, Santiago bit his lip. There was uncertainty there and shock; fear had gone away at least. But then Georgette nodded slowly. “Okay. Thank you.”

The ghost of a smile eased onto Santiago’s features. The years had made him all hard lines; no softness to be found on his angular cheekbones and tight jaw. But gentility crept back into his eyes and he no longer felt feral, homicidal. He was a man again, just like any other.

But even if Georgette’s nod meant that she forgave him, it didn’t mean she’d forget. Santiago didn’t want to admit to fear, but losing her was a very real possibility in this moment. And if he lost her, there was no telling what she’d do. Go to the cops, maybe. She was, after all, a medical examiner. She had to know plenty of cops.

“If there are so many people down here who want you dead, why are you here? What the hell are you doing?”

“I told you I was working late,” Santiago said, not quite as snappishly as he usually would. “As much as I complain about paperwork, sometimes I have to get my hands dirty.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Georgette Duguay

“I told you I was working late,” Santiago said, his voice calm where a temper should have been. It was a smart choice considering he wanted her forgiveness. Georgette crossed her arms. Something felt off. Considering the conversation she overheard, it seemed less like actual work and more like a shady business deal. “As much as I complain about paperwork, sometimes I have to get my hands dirty.”

“Santiago,” Georgette said sternly. “I may not speak Spanish, but I’m not an idiot. You were talking about some sort of business deal. French and Spanish aren’t that different, you know and I may have picked up a few useful phrases from you. Are you…” she dropped her voice to a harsh whisper, “dealing drugs?”

There were a lot of things Santiago was; he was rough, reckless. He was smoker and a drinker and in turn got her hooked. But in moments of uncertainty, she would whisper to herself “at least he’s not a drug dealer” and take a large sleeping pill to forget she had second thoughts. It was her mantra every time her mother asked to meet him and she found an excuse not to let them in the same room. It was what grounded her in place and told her that she wasn’t too far gone with a man. And she clung to that, hoping she was still right in telling herself “at least he’s not a drug dealer” until her nerves were calmed.

“Because if you are, Santiago, I swear to God…” But Georgette never finished her sentence. She didn’t want to finish her sentence. Because she didn’t actually know what she would do if he were.

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

“Santiago,” Georgette said sternly. “I may not speak Spanish, but I’m not an idiot. You were talking about some sort of business deal. French and Spanish aren’t that different, you know and I may have picked up a few useful phrases from you. Are you…” she dropped her voice to a harsh whisper, “dealing drugs?”

For a moment, Santiago was quiet. He could feel a laugh – humorless, dark thing – rising up in his tar-filled lungs. He’d never been a drug dealer, in all his years in the gang. He’d been a hit man, which wasn’t exactly better. But the way Georgette made it sound, anything was better than being a drug dealer.

Santiago had felt that way before inheriting the gang. Now, he wasn’t so sure that drug dealers were the worst of the worst. If anyone had his disdain, it was the city’s pimps, who trafficked people instead of drugs or weapons. Men who didn’t deserve to be called men who took advantage of others. And the addicts, they were bad, too. Filthy people, many of them, who would kill their own mother for a fix.

No, a drug dealer wasn’t the worst thing he could be. But Santiago, somehow, didn’t think that Georgette would see it through his eyes.

“Because if you are, Santiago, I swear to God…”

“You’ll what? Kill me?” he asked humorlessly, spreading his arms wide and laying his chest to her for her to beat or shoot or anything she pleased. Shaking his head, Santiago dropped his arms to his side. “I’m not a drug dealer. Georgette. And I don’t use, either. I’ve lost too many good friends to drugs to wanna go near that sh*t.”

It was true. He didn’t like being near drugs. He thought of Morales, who he’d murdered some four years ago. Morales, whose body was ravaged by drugs, whose arms were thin and wasted and covered in track marks. Morales, who had vacated that empty shell-of-a-body long before turning up in Paris. But just because Santiago didn’t like being personally near drugs, didn’t mean he wasn’t a kingpin. It just meant that usually, he let Carmen handle this sh*t, while he got to give orders. He didn’t like to dirty his hands. But like he’d already said, sometimes, duty called. Like tonight, when he had to deal with the dealers or some grey and early mornings, moving boxes filled with rank-smelling herbs or fine white powder so that they were inconspicuous in the basement of the building he owned and operated his detective agency out of.

He was long past drug dealing and he knew it. He was actually worse, probably, in Georgette’s eyes. The leader of a gang. He was proud of that fact, proud of the insignia carved on his ankle, but there was no need to be flashy about it. Peacocking for his girlfriend. It would serve no purpose.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Georgette Duguay

“You’ll what? Kill me?” Santiago asked, his eyes glinting with some sadistic humour. Georgette looked at her small and slender hands. They had touched death countless times, but had never caused it (save for a few mice in her apartment, but they were asking for it). She refused to let Santiago be her first kill, if she ever even made one.

“I’m not a drug dealer. Georgette. And I don’t use, either. I’ve lost too many good friends to drugs to wanna go near that sh*t.”

Georgette felt her shoulders slacken. She had seen what drugs did to a body, to a brain. It was disgusting business and knowing Santiago wasn’t involved in the deterioration of souls through substance was a scrap of relief. “Then tell me, Santiago,” Georgette said forcefully. “What were you doing? Stop avoiding my question. You know I hate it when you do that!”

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

“Then tell me, Santiago, what were you doing?”

“We should get out of here,” he said quietly.

“Stop avoiding my question,” said Georgette. “You know I hate it when you do that!”

Santiago reached into his pocket and pulled out his flask. It was silver and in the dim light, you couldn’t see the engraving on it, It had been his father’s; a gift from his mother. Santiago traced over the faded lettering and then offered it to Georgette.

“You’re gonna want this,” he told her. He pushed himself up on top of the dumpster. He liked heights and if he had things his way, he and Georgette would be perched on his private rooftop deck for this conversation. But that was life. Particularly, that was Santiago’s life. He gestured for her to sit. She’d want to sit, too, but he didn’t tell her that. Knowing Georgette, she’d get offended, since she wasn’t the fainting type. “It’s gonna be a long night.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Georgette Duguay

Santiago said nothing, but instead, reached into the recesses of his pockets, which somehow swallowed his writ until he retrieved from it a silver flask. He pushed it into her hand. “You’re gonna want this,” he said. And with that, he pulled himself up with an effortless graceful glide onto the dumpster. He gestured for her to sit. “It’s gonna be a long night.”

She gave him a resentful glare before pulling her arms up onto the dumpster and struggling to pull herself up. But she made no sound. Her pride refused to let her show weakness in front of Santiago. Not even at her most vulnerable, and certainly not as she tried to scale her way onto the top of a dumpster her height.

The dumpster smelled rank and Georgette was certain that the scent had engrained itself into her skin so that not even fifty showers would wash her clean. She swigged from the flask. It tasted like Santiago’s harsh, haste nicotine kisses and she savored the taste, not sure of when she would be able to taste it again. She rolled the liquor around her mouth a moment before swallowing and speaking, looking out at the dark alleyway which had gotten darker still as the sun set in a place that didn’t even shine here.

“Talk to me, Santiago,” Georgette said, surprised at how soft she sounded. “What’s going on?”

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

Maybe it was the softness of Georgette’s voice that broke him; maybe it was because Santiago was so f*cking tired of carrying this one burden in silence. Or maybe it was because for the last few weeks, his men had been keeping tabs on Georgette and there were murmurs in the ranks that she was “La Princesa”: the leader’s most treasured woman. Like Catalina had been before her, like Senora Reyes had been before that. His men had marked her apart, not for consumption, not just a woman. She was of value. The highest value. More goddess than person to them. And she didn’t know it. Santiago studied her in the darkness. She really was beautiful. Beautiful, smart, and useful. Outshining any other woman who had held the title before her.

She could, of course, run to the cops easier than any woman before her. She would walk a thin line between the right and wrong sides of the law as a medical examiner. Santiago couldn’t imagine her being an entirely kept woman, after all. She was too damn independent.

“The first night we had sex, you asked me about the tattoo on my ankle,” he said. His smile was gone now; it was time for seriousness. For honesty. Santiago was scared of nothing, if not the truth and its consequences. “I told you the truth. I was dumb enough to let my cousin give it to me. But it’s not just a tattoo. I think you’ve suspected for some time. You’re too smart not to have. I lead Las Gardunas.”

The words “a gang” hung unspoken in the air. Inference was a powerful tool, one that Georgette was adept at using. No doubt she’d figure it out.

“My men call you “La Princesa”. Do you know what it means, Georgette?” he continued. “It means “The Princess” in Spanish. But to them, it means you are the leader’s girl. Nobody can touch you; you’re safe. As long as you don’t go running to the cops, that is.”

He wouldn’t go after her. He’d give up without much a fight if she turned him in. Santiago was old by a gangster’s standards. He’d take his punishment as a caged wolf if he had to. A dead one, too, come to think of it. But he couldn’t promise her safety if she snitched. He scratched at the scruff on his chin.

“You keep the cops none-the-wiser, querida, and I promise you that anything you want is yours,” he told her. “Money. Houses. My undying loyalty – my men’s loyalty. As long as you are loyal to me – to us. I think that’s a fair trade.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Georgette Duguay

It was a long time before Santiago said anything, but she could feel his dark eyes looking her over, examining her, his hot pupils burning her skin with their intense gaze. She felt locked in his sight, but relished the attention he lavished on her as she took in the quickly dimming scene around her.

And then, at last, “the first night we had sex, you asked me about the tattoo on my ankle,” Santiago said and Georgette smiled at the memory. The way she had strolled in wearing nothing but a long coat, the hungry, gentle look in Santiago’s eyes, the condescending wink she gave his secretary as she strutted out into the rain. She remembered the sight of Santiago’s toned, naked body, his muscles rippling under calloused and marked skin. But when she looked at the man next to her now, he wasn’t smiling and her smile quickly faltered.

“Yes. I remember… What about it?”

Santiago continued. “I told you the truth. I was dumb enough to let my cousin give it to me. But it’s not just a tattoo. I think you’ve suspected for some time. You’re too smart not to have. I lead Las Gardunas.”

The smile returned to Georgette’s face, but it wasn’t one of thrill or nostalgia this time. Instead, her smile was lined with satisfaction, and with validation of her long time suspicions. All the canceled dates, the way he knew the code to her building without her telling him, the gun he kept on his person that looked far too dangerous for the work of a private eye. And that tattoo… Georgette always knew there was something odd about it, the hand-done look of it, the shape, the way it matched a dead man’s that Georgette had examined just last year.

Before tonight, Georgette had never heard the words ‘Las Gardunas’. Before tonight, Santiago was just a man she was sleeping with who thrilled her but never presented any real danger. Before tonight, gangs were just teenage kids she heard about on the news defacing property and claiming streetlight like Pokemon cards, but never paid much mind to. She never thought so much in her life would change on top of a dumpster.

“My men call you “La Princesa”. Do you know what it means, Georgette?” Santiago continued. Georgette nodded. “It means “The Princess” in Spanish. But to them, it means you are the leader’s girl.” ‘The Princess’ was what her father called her when he insisted she would one day take over his ‘kingdom’, his business. ‘The Princess’ was what her mother called her when she brought boys over and she demanded they treat her well or she would snoop through their medical records and tell their parents about their smoking, drinking, or treatment for crabs. ‘The Princess’ was what Georgette always dreamed of being, like every little girl with some sort of privilege did. But unlike her other counterparts whose dreams had faded, she was living it. She was the princess of a gang, the female figurehead of a demented kingdom, a twisted, thorny land, joined to a powerful prince. Never before had she felt more alive, more dominant. ”Nobody can touch you; you’re safe. As long as you don’t go running to the cops, that is.”

There was the footnote, the catch. She thought of all the cops she saw daily, going in and out of her office, letting her into prisons where she scraped faces off of cellblock floors. They were like humanoid bloodhounds, able to smell the smallest scent suspicious activity. They would know in a heartbeat that something was up.

And that excited her, walking a tight rope-thin line between both sides of the law, performing a balancing act between professional and princess. She liked the dangerous games she and Santiago played, leveling up to the highest of honors with Santiago at her side. But maybe she was biting off more than she could chew and would be stuck choking on life’s gristle without the option to spit it out. Now was her chance to run, but alone she would do so, carrying the burden of this new knowledge with no Santiago to help her. No Santiago at all.

And she couldn’t handle that thought. She could brave the cops, but she couldn’t brave a life without Santiago.

“You keep the cops none-the-wiser, querida, and I promise you that anything you want is yours.” Georgette looked up at him, hiding the uncertainty in her eyes, hoping he couldn’t read her thoughts as he locked gazes with her. “Money. Houses. My undying loyalty – my men’s loyalty. As long as you are loyal to me – to us. I think that’s a fair trade.”

Loyalty was always a heavy word for Georgette. In her experience the ability to be loyal was a hereditary trait, one her mother lacked and one Georgette never stuck around long enough to discover in herself. Certainly it was recessive, the way blue eyes often skipped a generation, and if she agreed to this only to find out in a year that fidelity was not a trait she possessed, she would be dead. The bottom dropped out of her stomach and she felt suddenly queasy. She looked at Santiago again, looking him over. He wouldn’t just be her prince, he would be her captor. But if she said no, she would be regulated to the humdrum of weekdays, strapped to a cold, hard examination table, living within the monotony of a schedule until they buried her in the ground. And that was a fate worse than death.

“You have my word,” she said. The words tasted like lead in her mouth as she spoke them, but no regret bubbled up into her gut. The street was completely dark now and she could barely see Santiago’s face. She laughed softly to herself. “Some date night, huh?”

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

If she snitched, it dawned on Santiago that there was always the option of killing Georgette himself. He was the most effective assassin in his gang, after all, and could make it look like an accident or the handiwork of another killer. The idea scratched its way into Santiago's skull and the sharp claws it presented hurt. He could feel a migraine coming on - guilt for a crime he hadn't and hopefully would never commit.

He was fond of Georgette after all. Maybe more than fond.

Santiago caught himself praying for the first time in a long time; praying that she'd agree to his terms and he'd get to keep her in his life, after all.

He'd never gotten to keep anyone around for too long before.

“You have my word,” Georgette said without a discernable trace of hesitation. Santiago nodded; a grim smile tugged at his lips.

Silence and darkness descended upon the street. Somewhere in the distance, a car's tires squealed and some drivers shouted at each other in angry French. Santiago looked at Georgette, whose features he could barely make out in the dim light.

But he could hear her laughing softly to herself.

“Some date night, huh?” she asked, still snickering.

Santiago let out a quiet chuckle and slid off the dumpster. He offered Georgette his hand.

"The night isn't over," he said with a smile. "And I promised you dinner. Let's go, su alteza."