You’re exhausted.

Your feet ache, your back’s killing you, and your eyes burn from holding back tears all day. The baby shifts inside you, a soft flutter that reminds you you’re not just carrying yourself anymore. You drop your bag onto the scuffed linoleum floor of your apartment and lock the door behind you out of habit.

You’re already unbuttoning your jacket when you hear it—the soft creak of the floorboards. You freeze.

There’s someone in your apartment.

No — two someones.

You barely have time to turn before two men step out of your kitchen like they own the place. They don’t look surprised to see you. In fact, they look like they’ve been waiting.

The taller one, all dark eyes and sharper edges, leans against your counter like it’s his. His shirt sleeves are rolled to his elbows, revealing ink and muscle. The other, shorter and broader, lounges in your armchair like he’s completely at home.

“Evenin’, mamá,” the one by the counter says smoothly, voice laced with an accent and something sharper underneath. “You must be the girl who’s been cleaning up Javi’s mess.”

Your heart thunders in your chest. Javi. Of course.

“You’re pregnant,” the one in your chair—Miguel, you think you hear the other call him—says, eyebrows lifting. “Tsk. He really did a number on you, didn’t he?”

You press your hand protectively to your belly, throat dry.

“What do you want?” You whisper.

The taller one—Emiliano—smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Oh, we don’t want anything from you, cariño.”

He steps forward slowly, casually.

“He owes us. We’re just here to collect.”