Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

Shaking her head, she lets out a breathy laugh. “I know Riccis are
supposed to be fearless. At least, that’s how Papá tried to raise us, why he put
us in self-defense classes when my sisters and I were kids. You should’ve
seen the way his eyes lit up the first time I put those skills to use.”
I think of the bruised knuckles and bloody lips she seemed to sport each
time I came into town over the years, how the broken flesh seemed a
permanent fixture. For such a warm, intelligent girl, her apparent appetite for
violence never made much sense.
Though, I suppose, when you grow up in a world rife with it, you’ll do
anything for a modicum of attention.
“Anyway,” she continues. “There’s nothing my fists can do to protect me
from free-falling out of the sky, so I usually try to avoid air travel.”
I’m sure it helps that Rafael rarely lets his family leave Boston.
“You know, statistically speaking, you’re far more likely to die in a fiery
automobile accident than you are in a plane crash.”
“Tell that to Buddy Holly, JFK Jr., and Ritchie Valens.”
“To be fair, two of those were the same crash.” I point a finger in her
direction. “So, that’s not really an honest comparison. And you’re far too
young to have been traumatized by them, anyway.”
Elena hums quietly, sitting up and peeling her eyes open. They sweep
over me, as if cataloging every visible inch of flawed flesh she can. Tilting
her head to one side, she purses her lips.
“You killed Mateo,” she says slowly.
“Had to. He posed several problems for me, and there was a good chance
he was involved in the security breach at your home.”
“Is that what you base your line of work on?” Her eyebrows rise. “A
chance?”
Inhaling deeply, I fold my hands over my lap and pin her with a dark
look. “No, little one. In fact, every single decision I’ve made in my adult life
has been carefully coordinated after exhaustive consideration. I don’t take
risks unless I’m sure of the outcome.”
“And this marriage is, what? A royal flush?”
Instead of answering immediately, I lean back in my seat and reach into
the sideboard to my right, riffling around until I feel the aged spine of a book
I once kept on my person at all times.
I used to write down verses from the book and then tear them from my
journal, leaving them on her balcony the few times a year I visited Boston.