“Sahara’s on her way,” said Marisa, reading the messages that had stacked up in her djinni. “And Bao. I don’t know what they’re going to do, just . . . stare in shock.” She laughed, though it sounded thin and desperate, with none of the drugged goofiness of her father’s chuckle. “Staring is all I can seem to do.”
Saif walked alongside her through the rubble. “It’s not too bad,” he said. “The windows are gone, sure, and that’s going to be trouble if it rains, but most of the tables are okay, and almost all the chairs. If we sweep this up and give it a good scrub, you can open for business tomorrow. Put up a big banner outside that says ‘Drive-by special! Half-price entrees!’ Make it a survival thing, like your neighbors should all be proud to eat here because the attack couldn’t keep Mirador down. They’ll come because of the bullet holes, not in spite of them.”
“I like this cuate, Mari,” said Carlo Magno. “Where’d you find him?”
“Drinking butterscotch in a dance club,” said Marisa.
“I guess I can overlook that,” said Carlo Magno. “He’s got a good head for business.”
“Two years of business school at USC,” said Saif.
“I don’t think I can overlook that,” said Carlo Magno with a frown. “What are you, twenty-one?”
Marisa rolled her eyes, feeling her face flush with embarrassment. “Papi . . .”
“Twenty-two,” said Saif. “I did some school in India before I came here.”
“Ay, hombre,” said Carlo Magno, “Marisita’s barely seventeen years old.”
“Por favor, Papi, can we stop talking about this?”
“If you sleep with her, I’ll have you locked up for statutory rape,” said Carlo Magno, his speech slurring from the drugs. “Or just shoot you. I dropped my gun in the fight, can you see it anywhere? Hey you, in the denim shirt, find my gun.” His eyes started to close. “I need to shoot that guy who was in here with my daughter.”
“He is exceptionally doped,” Saif whispered.
Marisa nodded, too embarrassed to look at him.
“He’s falling asleep.”
“Gracias a Dios.” Marisa dragged a table closer to her father’s chair, propping him against it so he wouldn’t fall and hurt himself as he slept. His leg was wrapped up like a mummy—not a hard cast, but layer upon layer of thick, cloth bandages. Blood was already seeping through the inner layers, darkening the surface without discoloring it. She’d have to change his bandages when they got him home.
“I’m really sorry about this,” said Saif.
“Just forget he ever said it,” said Marisa.
“No,” said Saif, “I mean your restaurant. The attack. The . . . everything.”
Marisa looked at him, somehow looking as comfortable here in the ruins of her family restaurant as he had in the dance club, or the VR parlor, or even the hospital. He fit perfectly, everywhere he went—and she couldn’t help but think about how well he had fit around her, holding her, and how well she’d fit in his arms. He’d come halfway across the biggest city in the world just to find her, just to see if she was safe.
“I punched you in the face,” she said suddenly.
“What?”
She took a step toward him, reaching for the bruise on his cheekbone, the cut in the center of it barely concealed by a bandage. “I’m just . . . so sorry that I punched you in the face. I thought you were just another rich idiot, but you’re really trying to help. You’re trying to help me.” She brushed his skin with her fingertips, feeling the warmth of his skin, the smoothness of it. He touched her hand with his own, staring into her eyes.
“Marisa,” he started, “I—”
“Andale, gringa!” It was Anja’s voice, shouting from outside. Marisa tore her eyes away from Saif’s, and looked toward the door in time to see Anja walk through, followed by Sahara and Bao. They ran toward her, and she met them in the middle of the room, catching both girls in a tight embrace. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” said Anja.
“Your family’s fine,” said Sahara. Camilla and Campbell hovered in the air behind her. “Don’t worry, I’m not broadcasting.”
“Hey,” said Bao, waving at Saif. “The dude from last night. Sorry I forgot your name.”
Saif nodded toward him. “Saif.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Bao. “I just don’t like you.”
Saif pressed his lips into a thin, humorless smile.
“I got your message about Nils,” said Sahara. “That must have been freaky.”
“You have no idea,” said Marisa. “But what really worried me came at the end: I said Nils’s name, and he cut off the connection—probably because he was scared, maybe because he was found, I don’t know. Whatever the reason, he severed the link to La Princesa’s mind while it was still live. And she didn’t come back.”