Novels by TalesByHagar

Nina povThe house sounds different at night.Not quieter—deeper. Like the walls have learned how to listen without reacting. I’m in the kitchen, barefoot on cool stone, rinsing a mug that doesn’t need rinsing. It’s something to do with my hands. Something ordinary.Dante leans against the counter across from me, jacket off now, sleeves rolled again. The light catches the edge of his forearm when he shifts. He watches without staring, the way he does—attention angled, never consuming.“You don’t have to clean,” he says.“I know,” I answer. “I just… am.”That earns a small nod. Not approval. Understanding.Mariela’s voice drifts from somewhere down the hall, speaking quietly into a phone. The cadence is all business. It fades. The house settles back into itself.I dry my hands and turn, resting my hip against the counter. We stand there, close enough to share the same pocket of air, far enough that neither of us has to account for it.“You were quiet on the drive,” Dante says.“I was l

Nina povThe store smells like new fabric and money that hasn’t been spent yet.It’s bright without being harsh, mirrors placed carefully so no one ever sees themselves from just one angle. Mannequins stand in quiet confidence, draped in clothes meant for lives that move easily through rooms.Mariela walks ahead of me like she belongs here—which she does. She touches fabrics between her fingers, assessing, already building something in her head. Her movements are efficient but not rushed. She doesn’t glance back to check if I’m keeping up. She knows I am.Dante stays farther back.Not distant in the way Ricky used to drift—bored, impatient—but intentional. He watches without hovering, leaning lightly against a pillar

Dante povThe hallway smells like damp carpet and old anger.It’s narrow, poorly lit, the kind of place where sound lingers too long and nothing ever really dries. A television blares somewhere behind a closed door, laughter distorted and out of place. I stop in front of the apartment marked 3B and listen.Glass clinks. Music pulses, off-beat. A voice slurs something ugly.Jose stands half a step behind me, solid and quiet, like he’s always been. He doesn’t ask if I’m ready. He knows better than to ask questions with a

Nina povThe room is quiet in a way that feels deliberate.Not empty. Not abandoned. Curated.I stand just inside the doorway, my hand still wrapped in the strap of the bag Mariela handed me, like if I let go the floor might shift under my feet. The door clicks shut behind me—soft, controlled. No slam. No warning baked into the sound.I wait for my body to react.It doesn’t.The room is larger than anywhere I’ve slept in years. A wide bed with clean white sheets. A chair by the window that looks like it’s meant for sitting, not collecting clothes. Lamps that cast warm light instead of buzzing overhead like an accusation.

Dante povI don’t lift the gun.That matters.The weight of it rests against my thigh, familiar, steady. I could tuck it away, slide it back beneath my jacket and soften the moment—but I don’t. Men like me don’t soften moments. We clarify them.She sees it the second she gets into the car.I watch the recognition flicker across her face. The way her body stills. Not panic. Calculation. She takes inventory fast—distance, posture, the angle of my arm. She notices everything. That’s the kind of woman she is.She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t ask questions. She doesn’t beg.Good.The door shuts with a quiet finality, sealing us into the dim interior. The city glides past the tinted windows, blurred streaks of light and shadow. The car moves smoothly, like it’s done this a thousand times before.She sits upright, back pressed slightly too stiff against the leather, knees together, hands folded in her lap. Her body takes up space—but she’s been trained to apologize for it, to contain it, to

Nina povThe club announces itself before you see it.Bass leaking through brick. A low, constant thud that settles in my chest and makes my ribs vibrate. The line outside is short tonight, men in jackets that cost more than my rent, women balanced on heels that look like weapons. Ricky walks like he belongs here. Like the place owes him something.I follow half a step behind. Always half a step.The bouncer barely looks at me. His eyes skim over my body and slide away, uninterested. Ricky gets a nod. A clap on the shoulder. He grins like that means something.Inside, the air is thick with smoke and perfume and money pretending it isn’t dirty. Lights cut through the dark in slow sweeps. Tables are crowded with men leaning too close, voices low, laughter sharp around the edges. I know this place. I know which corners smell like desperation and which ones smell like blood you don’t see.Ricky’s hand lands on my lower back. Not gentle. Possessive. Steering.“Smile,” he mutters. “You look