The lead enforcer looked as if he was about explode, but he said nothing. Calaca gave a satisfied grin. “Se?or, se?ora.” He nodded politely to Marisa’s parents, then shot a lecherous grin at Marisa. “Se?orita.”
Marisa’s father stepped forward, his fists clenched, but Calaca and the two thugs stepped around the enforcers and out the door. The entire restaurant seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, and more than a few patrons started hurriedly gathering their things to leave. Marisa pulled away from Bao and stormed toward the enforcers.
“Do you want to explain that?” Carlo Magno demanded.
“We’re sorry we couldn’t get here sooner,” said the lead enforcer.
“It shouldn’t have happened at all,” said Marisa. “They said you’re not paying them off anymore?”
The enforcer sighed. “You’ll have to talk to Don Francisco.”
“What’s going on with our money?” asked Guadalupe.
“You’ll have to talk to Don Francisco,” said the enforcer again. “We don’t know any more than you do, but this is not the first business this has happened to today. I’m sorry.” They turned and left, followed by a stream of terrified customers.
“Don’t leave now,” Guadalupe called desperately to the fleeing patrons. “They’ve left!”
“We’ve gotta talk to the Maldonados,” said Marisa. “We can’t let this—”
“You stay away from them,” said Carlo Magno firmly, “and you stay away from this, too—from the enforcers, from La Sesenta, from all of it. And you go back to school, now.”
“School, are you kidding? We need to—”
“You need to go to school and stay out of this!” he shouted.
Marisa stepped back, shocked at the heat of his outburst. His face softened when he saw her fear, and he shook his head sadly.
She stepped forward to hug him. “I love you, Papi.”
“I love you, too, Mari.” He hugged her tightly. “I love you, too. I don’t know what’s going on, but . . . I won’t lose you like I lost Chuy. Promise me you’ll be careful.”
Marisa nodded. “I promise.”
THREE
That evening, Sahara Cowan stepped out of her front door like a movie star, flanked by a pair of cam nulis hovering in the air around her—one in front to get a good shot of her face, and one on the side to catch Marisa in the background. Marisa had helped her program the AI that guided their camera angles; Sahara could control them with her djinni, but most of the time the algorithm was surprisingly good at capturing the best shots on its own. The small pink bow glued to the lead nuli identified it as Camilla, and its mustached companion was Cameron. Of course Sahara had named them.
Sahara strutted toward them like a runway model, and Marisa clapped politely.
“Gorgeous,” she said.
“Thanks.” Sahara twirled, showing off her dress: a short, layered skirt, almost like flower petals reaching down around her thighs, coming together at a tight waist only partially connected to a broad-shouldered top that left most of her midriff bare. No cleavage, but it hugged her curves enticingly. The whole thing was some kind of tie-dyed pattern, dark purples and bright yellows, probably hiding whatever shocking string bikini she had on underneath it, prepared for a dramatic reveal at the pool. Sahara’s hair was curled into thick tendrils that bounced slightly as she moved, and Marisa couldn’t help but envy the look.
“Sounds like I missed some excitement earlier,” said Sahara.
Marisa glanced at the nulis dryly; privacy was a joke around Sahara, and there were certain parts of this conversation she didn’t want to have in front of the entire internet. Sahara’s vidcast wasn’t world-renowned or anything, but it was still popular enough to get Sahara—and sometimes Marisa—recognized on an LA street. Marisa said nothing, and Sahara didn’t press any further.
“You look amazing,” said Sahara. “We going clubbing after?”
Marisa smiled. “Who knows? I came prepared for anything.” She’d worn one of her favorite clubbing outfits—a dark green dress with a knee-length skirt, a high neck, and long sleeves extending halfway past her elbows. It glittered faintly in the early phase of the sunset, and would sparkle like crazy under the multicolored lights of a good dance floor. The subtle green was a great complement to her dark skin, and the red tips in her hair made a perfect accent. She’d always used to wear a glove on her left hand as well, covering the clumsy SuperYu prosthetic, but her new Jeon looked so good that she loved showing it off—faintly tan, with light blue highlights, like water over sand. She could even make the blue parts glow. In a dance club especially, it always turned heads. She smiled back at Sahara conspiratorially. “Remember the guy from the other night?”
“With the ID on the paper?”
“I lost the paper.” Marisa shrugged helplessly, as if there was nothing she could do. “Obviously I don’t want to go clubbing, but how else am I going to meet another guy?”