Cruel Devotion (Rosetti Club Miami #4)

1 - Isa

The watch mechanism clicks into place under my fingertips, precise and final like a safety catching on a gun.

Three hours bent over this workbench, and the old Seiko finally surrenders.

The second hand stutters forward, then finds its rhythm.

I set my tools down in order: jeweler’s screwdrivers by size, tweezers parallel to the edge, oil pen capped and returned to its slot.

My apartment holds the same order. Every surface clean, every object in its designated space. No photographs on the walls. No throw pillows on the couch. Just the workbench by the window, the single bed against the far wall, the kitchen that could belong to anyone.

The watch ticks steadily now, keeping time it had lost. My fingers find the thin silver chain at my throat, an unconscious gesture I catch and stop. The small key tattooed on my inner wrist catches the late afternoon light as I reach for the leather strap.

Taiwan has mountains that disappear into clouds.

The thought arrives sideways, unwanted. Meiling's voice, years younger, promising to show me the night markets in Taipei, the temples carved into cliffsides.

"We'll go when we turn eighteen," she'd said, cross-legged on her bedroom floor with the travel guides spread between us.

"Just you and me and all that street food you're too scared to try. "

Guilt slams through me, sharp and physical.

My hand cramps suddenly, phantom pain from gripping too hard, holding too tight to something I should have let go.

I flinch away, my whole body recoiling before the memory can finish arriving.

My hands still on the watch strap, trembling slightly before I force them steady again.

I force my attention back to the repair, buckling the strap with unnecessary precision. But the damage is done. Taiwan floats in my peripheral vision now, mixing with the passport renewal form that's been sitting on my counter for three days.

The form pulls my attention like gravity.

I abandon the repaired watch and pick up the passport renewal.

Its pages are worn soft from years of not going anywhere.

The paper feels like skin, like something that's been touched too many times without purpose.

Due for renewal in six weeks. A simple bureaucratic task that suddenly feels like standing at a cliff's edge.

My passport photo stares back. A woman trying to disappear even in the required headshot. But it's the blank pages that make my chest tighten. All those destinations never visited. Taiwan never reached. A document meant for crossing borders that's become evidence of the cage I've built myself.

The apartment suddenly feels smaller. The walls press in despite the perfect order I maintain. The air tastes stale, recycled, like I've been breathing the same molecules for years.

Lisbon.

The city rises in my mind like an escape hatch. No history there. No ghosts on street corners. No promises broken on bedroom floors. Just somewhere far enough away that even the ocean between wouldn't feel like enough distance.

I pick up the pen. The renewal form asks simple questions: current address, emergency contact, intended travel. My hand moves across the page with sudden decisiveness, each stroke a commitment. Under "reason for expedited processing," I write: Relocation.

The word stares back at me, making the decision concrete.

Not a fantasy anymore. Not idle talk over late-night drinks.

A decision, committed to paper. I fill out the rest of the renewal form, the same fierce precision I use on broken watches.

This is me committing to leave, to escape, to finally choose Lisbon over this trap I've built myself.

The relief hits physical, pressure releasing from my chest. I set the form aside, already calculating what I'll need. How much I can save, what I can sell, how quickly I can untangle myself from this life I've wrapped so tight around me.

The late afternoon light shifts toward dusk. Time for work. But for the first time in months, maybe years, I feel something that might be lightness. Or hope. Or just the first crack in a wall I'm finally ready to tear down.

The Miami streets glow amber in the dying light as I walk to La Sirena.

Salt from the bay mixes with exhaust and the sweet rot of flowers blooming in heat.

Usually this route calms me. The familiar turns, the neighborhood dogs behind their gates, the jasmine blooming over someone's fence. Tonight something feels off.

Eyes on my back. The sensation starts three blocks from my apartment, a prickle between my shoulder blades that makes me check behind me.

Nothing. Just the usual evening foot traffic.

Couples heading to dinner, a jogger with earbuds.

But there's a car idling at the corner that's been there too long, windows tinted black as oil.

I keep walking.

The feeling sharpens. Not aggressive attention, not the kind that wants something.

This is different. Patient. Proprietary.

I catch a whiff of cologne. Like tobacco laced with lime.

Then it's gone. Two blocks later, the same scent drifts past again, impossible from the same source unless someone's following my exact path.

At the corner of Fifth and Ocean, I hear it: a whistle, low and tuneless, that stops the instant I turn my head. The streetlights flicker on, casting pools of yellow that make the spaces between them darker. My hand drifts to my pocket, fingers finding my phone.

I cut through the alley behind the Latin grocery. A shortcut I rarely take. The feeling doesn't diminish. If anything, it intensifies. My pulse kicks up.

Two more blocks. Big decisions make you paranoid. That's all this is. The aftershock of finally choosing to leave. Miami playing tricks one last time before I escape.

"Isa, mi amor, you look ready to fight someone."

Adrian's voice cuts through my unease like warm honey. He's leaning against the lamp post outside La Sirena, all easy charm in linen shirt and rolled sleeves.

He's exactly as he was when I first met him five years ago — same easy lean against whatever surface is nearest, same gold chain catching the light at his throat, same dark hair pushed back like he ran a hand through it once and decided that was enough.

Six feet of effortless. The vibrant energy of Miami personified.

The streetlight throws his shadow long across the pavement. For a moment it looks like it's reaching for me. Then he smiles, and everything becomes warm again.

"Long walk," I say, and he accepts it without question. That's Adrian's gift, making you feel like whatever you give him is exactly enough.

Inside La Sirena, the world rights itself.

The familiar chaos of pre-opening washes over me.

Already the air carries perfume and aged whiskey and something darker.

Gun oil, maybe, from whoever's been in the back rooms. Servers adjust tables while Logan crosses the floor with his tablet, every line of him precise as a blade.

In the corner, two men in tailored suits have a conversation made entirely of subtext, their voices never rising above a murmur while their hands stay visible on the table. Old school rules.

I slip behind the bar and into my element.

The routine of setup washes away the street's strangeness.

Adrian works the room even when it's empty, adjusting a spotlight here, charming a new server there.

He pauses by the suited men, places a hand on one's shoulder.

Friendly to anyone watching, but the man goes rigid for just a moment before forcing a laugh.

Adrian's grip looks light. I know better.

I've seen him crack walnuts bare-handed without changing expression.

The bruise on his right knuckles is fresh, purple-black and swollen. He catches me looking and winks, rotating his hand like it's nothing. "Disagreement with a lime. The lime lost."

The club fills as the sun fully sets. Miami's beautiful crowd in their beautiful clothes.

Cartel money in Armani mixing with trust fund princes, everyone pretending not to notice the men in the corner who never order drinks but always get served.

I pour, giving them nothing but perfect cocktails.

No smile, no conversation, just the competence they pay for.

Halfway through the night, someone whispers urgently to a woman in red at the bar.

She goes pale, leaves her drink untouched, and disappears out the back exit.

Her perfume lingers. Jasmine and fear-sweat.

Nobody comments. Nobody looks. That's how La Sirena works: you see everything and acknowledge nothing.

Three hours into service, Adrian appears at my elbow with an espresso.

Cuban coffee, strong enough to wake the dead, with that edge of burnt sugar that means he made it himself.

He knows exactly how I take it. Nothing added, nothing softened.

Sets it down without ceremony, the same spot he always does.

Close enough that I can reach it without looking, far enough that it doesn't interfere with my work.

The coffee ritual, years old now, neither of us acknowledging it.

But tonight he doesn't move away. He stands there, studying me with those warm brown eyes that see everything. And I watch him read me. Watch him take in some invisible shift in my posture, my focus, the way I'm holding myself. He knows. Before I say a word, Adrian knows what I've decided.

"You're leaving," he says. Not a question. A fact he's read off my body like other people read newspapers.

I pause mid-pour. The accuracy of it, the way he draws truth out of me without trying, should feel invasive. Instead it feels like being known.

"What makes you say that?"