Delgano: A Dark Contemporary Interracial Romance

“Can I just say that I find it incredibly sexy when you go back and forth between English and Portuguese?”

“Don’t tempt me. I boast.”

“Then boast, baby.”

He laughed. “So, back to Papa-Figo. It was after school. The sky was already dark, and I was too young to understand the birds and the trees and how they can tell you how bad the rain’s going to be. Sometimes, my mother was late, but not by much—five minutes, ten. Today was one of the ten minute days, but then, the rain started coming down. Hard.”

She almost squealed at how much she enjoyed this version of him. Not only did she love how animated he was, but she didn’t have much of a childhood. Had she had the choice, she definitely would have wanted ghost-story telling to be a significant part of it.

She and Hannah shared a grandmother, but their grandmother died when she was a little under a year old. According to Hannah, their grandmother had shared numerous stories from her days as a young girl growing up in the Bahamas, complete with ghost sightings, cloven-foot mistresses, and eerie noises riding the wind.

“I went back into the school a little bit because I felt some hail,” he continued. “The rain then goes from a light drizzle to a sheet in under one minute. From where my school was, a little bit on top of a hill, on a clear day, I could see nearly all of Rio. But, that day, it was like Rio was behind a fog. And that’s when I saw him—a man with gray skin. Querida, he was so thin. Sickly thin. He walked with what my mother would call quadril e queda—hip and drop. Like a limp with a dragging foot. Over his shoulder, he carried a sack. Immediately, I knew it was him, and guess what? I was the only child around. One of the nuns from my school was waiting with me, but she was looking away.”

“I bet you were so scared.”

“I shook, Sayeda.”

She offered him a pastel, which he ate right from her fingertips.

“Then, he turns, and he sees me. Our eyes meet…boom and boom. He’s coming for me. I know it. I don’t know what my liver does at this age—maybe I’m seven or eight—but I know it’s not supposed to be eaten. I prayed so hard. And then, guess what? My mother comes running up, holding an umbrella. She runs right through him.”

They were in a pitch-black room, but it was as if she could see his face, and he could see the shock on hers. “So, she didn’t see him?”

“No.”

“He must have made himself visible only to you.”

“You know, I never thought about that. That could be it. He disappeared after that.”

“Did you ever see him again?”

“No, thank God. But some weeks later, me and my mother stopped by a friend’s restaurant. His name was Mr. Rodrigues, and I overheard him telling one of the customers that not far from the school, somebody found a sack.”

She gasped and reached out, fumbling until she gripped his wrist. “What was in it?”

“Chicken livers.”

“You’re lying.”

“I kid you not.”

“But would those even work if he needs children’s blood?”

“I don’t know. Maybe that’s why he left them behind.”

“Whoa.” She gave him a round of applause. “That story had everything—mystery, nostalgia, suspense, a surprise ending. Bravo.”

She spotted a movement, as if he’d bowed, and burst out laughing. Then, all of a sudden, she had to bite her tongue. If she hadn’t, a series of words would have come tumbling out of her mouth.

If there was one thing she remembered from reading Adrían’s profile, it was that this man didn’t seem capable of love outside of what he’d felt for his mother. She’d seen the version without her mother’s notes, snippets sent to her by Atlas to see if she knew why Central had Gano The Enforcer in their sights, so she could only imagine Mora’s write-up:

“Adrían Delgano is a complex and enigmatic individual with a past shrouded in mystery. Born into a turbulent family environment characterized by poverty, grief, and emotional upheaval, he experienced profound disruptions in early attachment relationships, leading to a pattern of insecure-resistant attachment. Despite this, he displays an outward facade of stoicism and emotional detachment, concealing a deep-seated struggle with unresolved trauma.

Adrían also exhibits traits consistent with alexithymia, characterized by difficulty identifying and expressing emotions. He appears to struggle to articulate his inner feelings or connect with others on an emotional level. This emotional dysregulation further complicates his interpersonal relationships, fostering a sense of isolation and alienation from those around him.”

For a little spice, Mora would probably throw in a psychotic disorder or two while sprinkling in a neurological condition. Her mother, with a medical degree in psychiatry, was nearly as dangerous as Adrían and Hannah with a firearm. Sometimes, she believed her mother pursued psychiatry to use diagnosing others as a way to avoid looking inward.

“Do you think you’ll be able to sleep now?” he asked. Do you want another story?”