Chapter 11
Darling
The knocking starts at eight in the morning.
Not the polite kind that comes with patience and apology. The persistent kind that keeps hammering against the door like the person on the other side has no intention of leaving.
The sound drags me out of sleep one stubborn knock at a time.
Disco answers first.
My cockatoo shrieks from his perch in the corner like he’s personally offended by the concept of morning.
“?Levántate!” he screams. “?Buenos días! ?Dale!”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, cracking one eye open.
Sunlight slices through the cheap blinds in thin white blades, turning the dust in my apartment into floating glitter.
My head throbs like somebody is tapping a hammer against the inside of my skull.
The air is already warm, already sticky, the kind of Miami heat that crawls in through the cracks and makes you feel guilty for breathing.
Gunshots.
The memory flashes through me before I can stop it. The rooftop. Screams. The bite of ocean wind carrying the smell of gunpowder. Diablo’s arm wrapped around my waist, dragging me behind the bar while glass exploded around us.
And then his voice in his office.
“Go home.”
Like I’m a stray he fed too long.
I went to Lady’s first to get Disco. She didn’t want to bring me home, but I insisted. She finally gave in.
The knocking doesn’t stop.
Disco flaps his wings once and shouts, “?Policía!” like he’s announcing a raid.
“Not the cops,” I mumble, dragging myself out of bed.
My feet hit the floor and the cool tile shocks me more awake than the hangover ever could.
I shuffle toward the door wearing nothing but an oversized T-shirt that barely covers my thighs.
I frown when I realize it’s probably Diablo’s, left over from years ago when we were happy.
My mascara is probably smudged from crying half the night.
I reach up into a bird’s nest. My hair feels like it fought a hurricane and lost.
The knocking comes again. Louder.
I lean forward and peer through the peephole.
Three men in matching black polos stand in the hallway beside a rolling cart stacked with boxes. Real boxes. Thick cardboard with glossy logos stamped across the sides. The kind of packaging that belongs in penthouses and boutique storefronts.
Not here.
Not in my second-floor apartment that still smells faintly like Rico’s cheap cologne and burnt coffee.
A neighbor’s door across the hall cracks open. A pair of eyes peeks out, curious and nosy in the way apartment buildings train people to be.
I crack my door open a few inches.
“Yes?”
One of the men checks a tablet in his hand like he’s delivering to a hotel suite, not a woman who slept four hours after a shootout.
“Delivery for Darling Rivera.”
My stomach drops.
“I didn’t order anything.”
“It’s prepaid, ma’am.”
Ma’am.
The word makes my skin itch.
I open the door wider before I can stop myself, because some part of me already knows. Some part of me has known since the second Diablo’s voice told me to go home like he didn’t care.
They wheel everything inside like they are unloading a luxury suite instead of stepping over the scuffed tile of my tiny living room. The cart rattles softly across the floor as box after box appears.
Garment bags.
Shopping bags with thick rope handles.
Flat white boxes tied with satin ribbon.
Disco leans forward, crest lifting, eyes sharp.
“?Qué es?” he demands, then whistles loud enough to pierce my skull. “?Dale!”
The men move with the efficiency of people who do this kind of thing every day. In and out. No questions. No eye contact. Like they’re trained not to notice the bruises life leaves on people.
My heart starts pounding.
When they finally leave, the door clicks shut and my apartment goes quiet again except for the distant noise of Miami waking up. A car stereo thumps reggaeton down the street. Somebody yells in Spanish from a balcony. A siren fades somewhere toward the main road.
I stand in the middle of my living room surrounded by luxury like I’ve stepped into someone else’s life.
Disco whistles from his perch, then says, clear as day, “?Qué fancy!”
I bark a laugh, sharp and disbelieving.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I know.”
I kneel and reach for the closest bag.
The designer logo printed across the front looks expensive enough to scare me.
My fingers tremble slightly as I open it.
Inside is a dress.
Silk. Cream colored. Soft enough that it slides through my hands like water when I lift it out. The cut is sharp and deliberate, designed to hug curves I spent years hiding beneath baggy shirts and cheap denim.
The next bag holds heels.
Red bottoms.
The stiletto tips look sharp enough to kill a man.
Disco watches with the intense focus of a little old lady judging outfits at church.
“?Mami rica!” he announces, loud.
“Oh my God,” I hiss, shooting him a look.
He bobs his head like he’s proud of himself.
“Diablo,” I breathe.
Of course it’s him.
Box after box reveals more. Lingerie wrapped in tissue paper. Bags that probably cost more than a month of rent. Blouses that smell faintly like expensive department stores and air conditioning. A soft robe that feels like it belongs in a hotel where nobody screams in the night.
The white ribbon box sits in the center of the pile like it knows it is important.
I open it carefully.
Jewelry glitters inside.
A diamond tennis bracelet catches the sunlight and throws tiny sparks across the ceiling. A pair of simple gold hoops rests beside it. A delicate chain with a tiny devil charm hangs in the center of the velvet lining.
My throat tightens.
There is no note.
Of course there isn’t.
That would require vulnerability.
Diablo doesn’t do notes.
He does statements.
He does ownership wrapped in pretty things.
A knock rattles the door again.
I freeze.
Disco screams, “?No abras!” like he’s suddenly my mother.
I open it anyway.
A woman stands there in a crisp navy uniform dress, hair pulled tight into a perfect bun, posture so straight it makes me feel underdressed in my own apartment.
“Ms. Rivera?” she asks politely.
“Yes?”
“I have been hired to clean twice weekly and assist with errands.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
Her smile never wavers. Calm and professional in the way people smile when they already know the answer to the question you’re about to ask.
“Your service has been prepaid for three months,” she says. “You may cancel at any time, ma’am.”
Cancel.
The word matters.
It makes my anger shift from panic to something more complicated.
My face still burns hot.
“By who?” I ask anyway.
She does not answer.
She does not need to.
I step aside slowly and let her in.
The woman moves through the apartment like she belongs here. Windows slide open. Sheets are stripped from the bed. A spray bottle appears from her bag and suddenly the air smells like lemons and polished wood.
Within minutes Rico’s lingering scent begins to disappear.
That alone makes my chest ache.
She opens packages and replaces things like she’s been given directions.
Another knock raps through the apartment.
I stare at the door like it might explode.
When I open it again, two delivery men stand there with a brand new refrigerator balanced on a dolly.
I don’t even speak this time.
They roll my dented old one out like it’s garbage. The new one gleams stainless steel and smug under the kitchen light.
When they plug it in and open the doors, it’s already stocked, like someone paid a concierge service to build a life for me overnight.
Fresh fruit in neat rows. Imported cheese wrapped in wax paper. Bottles of sparkling water. Cold brew coffee. A tray of fresh salmon sealed in plastic.
Disco whistles low and says, “?Qué rico!” like he’s about to climb in.
I laugh.
The sound that comes out borders on hysterical.
Because it’s absurd.
Because it’s generous.
Because it’s also control in stainless steel.
Then comes the final box.
It’s bigger than the rest.
The two men carry it inside and leave without explanation.
I crouch beside it slowly and lift the lid.
Inside is a cage.
No.
It’s a mansion.
Chrome bars shine under the light. Natural wood perches twist across multiple levels. Hanging toys dangle from the top like carnival decorations. A tiny hammock swings gently when I touch it. A mirrored swing sits in the middle like a throne.
My eyes sting unexpectedly.
“Disco,” I whisper.
He hops along his old perch, crest up, suspicious as hell.
“You just upgraded, bebé,” I tell him, voice cracking on the last word.
Disco leans forward and says, “?Dale!” then starts laughing in that weird cockatoo way that sounds like a tiny man losing his mind.
By noon the apartment barely looks like the place I woke up in.
Fresh flowers sit on the kitchen counter. The floors shine. My closet now holds more silk and satin than I have ever owned in my life. The air smells like lemons instead of fear.
And outside the window I can see the street like I’m watching a movie. Miami moving. People laughing. A kid on a scooter swerving around a pothole. A man at a ventanita handing out cafecito like it’s medicine.
My phone buzzes against the table.
Unknown number.
I know before I open it.
The same number that called once last night and hung up when I answered. The same silence that always follows him like smoke.
Diablo.
Three words appear on the screen.
You deserve better.
That’s it.
Three simple words.
I stare at the message until the screen dims.
Deserve better.
Better than what?
Better than Rico.
Better than bruises and shouting and doors slamming in the middle of the night.
Better than being dragged into Vice Ink like collateral damage.
Better than seeing Carmen straddling him after he claimed to love me.
My thumbs move before I can stop them.
Me: You think money fixes everything?
Three dots appear almost instantly.
Diablo: No.
Another message follows.
Diablo: But I won’t let you live like that again.
My chest tightens.
Live like what.
Like I did without you?
Or like I did because of you?
I walk into the bedroom and stare at the new clothes hanging inside the closet.
Silk.
Satin.
Sharp lines and soft curves.
He knows my size.
Of course he does.
He has memorized every inch.
And the thought makes heat flicker low in my belly, hot and humiliating. My body remembers his hands like they left fingerprints under my skin.
My phone buzzes again.
Diablo: You don’t belong in that apartment.
My jaw tightens.
Me: I don’t belong locked in your clubhouse like a secret either.
The typing dots appear.
Disappear.
Appear again.
Diablo: That’s not what I meant.
I throw the phone onto the bed and start pacing.
This is manipulation.
This is control wrapped in expensive packaging.
This is exactly the kind of move a powerful man makes when he does not want to lose something.
My fingers drift to the bracelet sitting on the dresser.
I pick it up slowly.
The diamonds catch the sunlight when I slide it onto my wrist.
It fits perfectly.
I hate that it does.
Disco stares at it with his head cocked, then says, “?Brilla!” like he’s impressed.
The maid appears in the doorway, voice calm.
“Is everything to your liking?”
I look around the apartment.
The new refrigerator hums quietly. The windows are open and fresh air drifts in from the street. Disco is already climbing around his massive new cage like he was born into luxury, crest up like a king.
“To my liking?” I repeat.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ma’am again.
I shake my head slowly.
This is what Diablo does.
He doesn’t beg.
He builds a world around you until leaving feels stupid.
Until walking away feels like choosing discomfort on purpose.
My phone lights up again.
Diablo: You’re not a secret.
The words land deep.
Not soft.
Not sweet.
A claim.
A line in the sand.
I sit on the edge of the bed, the bracelet glittering against my wrist, my pulse still not steady.
I am furious.
At him.
At myself.
At the way my heart reacts to those words.
But beneath the anger something dangerous stirs.
Flattered.
Wanted.
Chosen.
I type back before I can stop myself.
Me: I don’t need your money.
This time the reply takes longer.
Disco fills the silence by shouting, “?Dale, mami!” like he’s coaching a fight.
Finally the phone buzzes.
Diablo: It’s not about money.
I stare at the message.
Because that is the part that scares me.
If it isn’t about money, then it’s about something deeper.
And deeper is a hell of a lot harder to walk away from.
Disco whistles once, then says, soft and smug, “?Te ama!”
I freeze.
My throat tightens.
I don’t answer him.
But my hand drifts back to the bracelet anyway, fingers brushing the diamonds like they might burn.
They don’t.
They just glitter.