Chapter 12
Darling
Two days after the boxes showed up, Miami has already decided I’m a story again.
The rooftop shooting is a rumor people chew on like gum. The Saints Outlaws are a headline nobody prints in the paper but everybody whispers about. There are posts online, though.
Diablo’s three damn words still live under my skin like a bruise.
You deserve better.
So I do what Miami does best.
I perform.
Lady set me up on a date.
Disco rides on my shoulder in a little harness and leash like a tiny, feathered bodyguard.
He’s been whistling at strangers all afternoon and yelling “?Dale!” at cars like he’s directing traffic.
Lady called it “branding.” I called it emotional support.
Either way, he’s here, crest half up, judging the world.
The Lamborghini announces itself before anyone even sees it.
The engine growls low and arrogant, the kind of sound that turns heads before the car even appears. Matte black paint glides beneath the Miami streetlights as Mateo eases through late-night traffic on Ocean Drive. The doors alone probably cost more than my entire apartment building.
Mateo Cruz grins at me from behind oversized designer sunglasses even though the sun went down hours ago. His teeth are too white and his confidence is too polished, the kind that comes from living life online where everything is curated and nothing is real.
“You ready, princesa?” he asks, leaning across the console.
His phone sits mounted to the dash, camera angled perfectly so it catches both of us in frame.
Of course it does.
Disco leans forward on my shoulder and stares at the phone like it insulted his mother.
“?Hola!” he squawks suddenly, loud enough to make Mateo flinch. Then he adds, softer and smug, “?Mami!”
Mateo laughs like that’s adorable. “Oh, she came with a hype man.”
“He’s a cockatoo,” I say, smoothing Disco’s feathers. “And he’s mean.”
“Perfect,” Mateo says, like mean is a compliment.
Tonight I’m wearing one of the dresses Diablo sent.
Emerald silk hugs my waist like it was sewn onto my body. The neckline dips just low enough to make men stare twice before they remember their manners. My hair falls loose down my back in glossy waves, and the diamond bracelet he sent catches every flicker of neon bouncing off the hood of the car.
If Diablo wants to throw money at me, fine.
I will weaponize every damn dollar.
Mateo taps his phone screen and the small red icon lights up.
“We’re live,” he says.
Of course we are.
The Instagram comments start flooding across the screen instantly. Fire emojis. Heart eyes. Questions. Speculation. Hundreds of strangers staring through a phone at a version of me they think they understand.
Mateo angles the camera closer to my face like he’s unveiling a prize.
“This,” he says dramatically, “is the mystery woman.”
I lean into it because that is what you do when someone turns life into a performance.
I tilt my chin slightly and let the glow of Ocean Drive reflect off the windshield in pink and blue streaks.
The neon signs outside beachfront bars smear across the glass like watercolor.
Tourists spill onto sidewalks in linen shirts and heels, loud and sunburned and fearless.
Reggaeton pulses from open patios. A cop cruiser rolls slow like it’s watching for an excuse.
“Say hi,” Mateo encourages.
I smile like the city belongs to me.
“Hola, Miami.”
The comment section explodes.
Disco whistles, then says, crisp as hell, “?Qué bonita!” like he’s complimenting me on purpose.
Mateo laughs harder, clearly enjoying the reaction.
“She’s trouble,” he says to the camera.
If only he knew.
We cruise down Ocean Drive with the top down. Humid night air whips my hair, carrying salt water and expensive perfume from every rooftop bar we pass. Flashing lights reflect off the hood like we’re inside a music video.
It feels reckless.
It feels petty.
It feels good.
Mateo rests his hand casually on my thigh, positioning it just right so the camera catches the angle. The touch is light. Performative. A prop.
I don’t move it.
Because somewhere deep down, I know Diablo is watching.
He always watches.
The thought sends a current through my chest. Equal parts anger and something far more dangerous.
Disco tilts his head, eyes narrowing, then mutters, “No,” like he’s vetoing Mateo personally.
Mateo pulls into the valet line outside a waterfront restaurant hosting one of those private influencer dinners that seem to happen every night in Miami.
The entrance is a wall of bodies and cameras and desperation.
Velvet rope. A host with a headset. A promoter in a fitted suit whispering names like they’re passwords.
Influencers.
Models.
Crypto bros who look like they learned how to dress from motivational podcasts.
Everyone looks polished and expensive and slightly desperate.
Mateo shuts off the engine but keeps the live stream running.
“Let’s show them the car,” he says, climbing out.
The doors lift upward with slow mechanical drama.
Heads turn immediately.
Phones come out.
People love a spectacle.
I swing one leg out and stand slowly, letting the dress settle against my body. Disco adjusts his footing on my shoulder, crest rising like he’s impressed with the entrance.
Camera flashes pop from a group of girls near the sidewalk who clearly think Mateo is someone more important than he actually is.
And then I hear it.
A different engine.
Lower.
Rougher.
Familiar.
My stomach drops before I even turn.
A black Harley glides up behind the Lamborghini, chrome catching the streetlights as the bike rolls to a stop like it owns the curb.
Diablo doesn’t wear a helmet. He cracks his neck. His dark hair falls slightly out of place from the ride. He strokes his beard and his eyes lock onto me with an intensity that cuts straight through the noise of Ocean Drive.
The world narrows.
Mateo glances over his shoulder, confused. “You know him?”
Disco leans forward, crest up, and announces, loud and delighted, “?Diablo!”
Heads whip toward us like that name is a match.
Diablo doesn’t look at Mateo.
He looks at me.
And he says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Get out of the car.”
Mateo laughs awkwardly, glancing between us.
“Bro, we’re kind of in the middle of something.”
The phone is still pointed at us. Thousands of viewers watching in real time.
The comments start flying faster.
Who’s that?
Is that her boyfriend?
Oh shit this just got real.
That’s a biker.
Diablo finally shifts his gaze toward Mateo.
It isn’t loud.
It isn’t dramatic.
It is lethal.
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
The temperature around us drops. Even the valet pauses, hands hovering like he doesn’t want to be caught in whatever this is.
Mateo straightens slightly, suddenly unsure of himself in a way he clearly is not used to.
My pulse pounds against my ribs.
He should not have this effect on me.
I should laugh.
I should tell him to fuck off.
I should stay exactly where I am and let him choke on it.
Instead, I unbuckle my seatbelt.
Mateo blinks at me. “Wait, what?”
I step out of the car.
The night air feels electric against my skin.
Disco’s claws tighten lightly through the fabric of my dress, like he’s bracing. He leans toward Diablo and huffs out a little whistle that sounds like judgment.
Diablo doesn’t smile.
He doesn’t gloat.
He simply holds out a helmet.
“Get on.”
Mateo’s phone is still pointed at us.
“This isn’t content,” I mutter under my breath.
Diablo’s jaw tightens. “Exactly.”
I swing my leg over the Harley.
The moment my hands wrap around his waist, heat rushes through my body like I touched a live wire.
His back is solid beneath my palms, warm even through the fabric.
The vibration of the motorcycle hums up through my thighs and makes my breath hitch like my body remembers more than my mind wants to admit.
Disco clings to my shoulder, harness snug, and says into the wind, “?Vámonos!” like he’s been waiting his whole life for this.
I pull him down and tuck him under my arm.
The engine roars to life.
Then we are gone.
Ocean Drive dissolves into streaks of neon and taillights. Wind tears at my dress and whips my hair into chaos as I hold on to Disco like his little bird life depends on it. Instinct takes over and I press closer, chest to his back, thighs tightening around the bike.
For one brief moment Diablo’s hand slides back and grips my knee.
Not possessive.
Not rough.
Just a quick, grounding squeeze.
Like he needs to confirm I’m real.
Like he needs to know I didn’t disappear again.
We don’t slow down until the noise of the city fades behind us and the air changes.
Less perfume. More salt. More ocean. South Pointe stretches ahead in quiet darkness.
The Harley rolls to a stop near the edge of the beach where sand meets pavement and the Atlantic spreads out endless and black beneath the moon.
The engine dies.
Silence settles around us except for the steady crash of waves.
I climb off slowly and take off my heels.
Sand sticks to my feet as I walk toward the shoreline. Disco hops to my forearm, leash taut between us, crest half raised like he’s ready to fight the ocean if it looks at me wrong.
Behind me I hear Diablo’s boots sink into the sand.
“You embarrassed yourself,” I say without turning.
“I don’t give a fuck about that.”
“You interrupted my date.”
“You don’t belong with him.”
I turn around.
“And I belong with you?”
The question hangs between us.
His eyes soften slightly, just enough to hurt.
“I can’t lose you again,” he says.
The words hit harder than I expect.
“You already did.”
He steps closer until I can feel the heat of his body through the cool ocean breeze. His gaze flicks to Disco for half a second, like he’s processing the bird harness situation, then back to me.
Disco chooses that moment to say, smug as hell, “?Te ama!”
My face burns hot.
“Disco,” I whisper.
He whistles like he didn’t do anything.
Diablo’s mouth twitches once. Not a smile. Not quite. Something warmer than rage.
“I thought pushing you away would protect you,” he says quietly. “It didn’t. It just left you with some asshole who put his hands on you.”
“You don’t get to rewrite history.”
“I’m not trying to,” he says, and the strain leaks through the control he normally wears like armor. “I’m trying to fix what I broke.”
“Well, I won’t date a biker,” I say. “Ever again. I’ve learned my lesson.”
The words leave a bad taste.
His lips flatten. “You’re punishing me?”
“I’m protecting myself.”
He trails a hand through his hair, frustration rolling off him in waves.
“You chose me when you got on my bike,” he says. “Don’t lie.”
Heat crawls up my neck.
“I felt adrenaline.”
“You felt me.”
The wind lifts my hair across my face and for a second his hand moves like he’s going to brush it away.
He stops himself halfway, like he’s afraid of what one gentle touch will do to both of us.
“I can’t promise you an easy life,” he says. “But I can promise you I won’t ever let another man touch you again.”
“That sounds like ownership.”
“It sounds like love.”
The word lingers between us.
Dangerous.
The ocean hammers the shoreline behind him, relentless.
I shake my head slowly. “You’re engaged.”
“I know.”
“You sleep under the same roof.”
“I know.”
“You had her in your bed.”
His eyes flash, dark. “She walked in. I didn’t invite her.”
“Your dick wasn’t in her?”
He looks away. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
He steps closer until there is barely space left between us. I can feel the heat of him like a second sun in the night. My body reacts, traitorous, remembering his hands, his mouth, the way he said my name like he owned the syllables.
“Give me one real date,” he says.
I let out a quiet laugh. “This isn’t a movie.”
“One real date,” he repeats. “No club. No politics. No Carmen.”
“You think she won’t find out?”
His mouth curves slightly, something darker beneath the surface. “Let her.”
The words should scare me.
They do.
They also make something hot twist low in my stomach.
“You want one date,” I say slowly.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You gave some stranger a date? What does he have that I can’t give you?”
“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s not about that.”
“Then what?”
“I wanted to come first. I wanted the experience. A man showing up his best and giving his best. To me.”
“I can do that,” he says, sure of himself.
“And then what?”
“Then you decide. If you choose me, I will go to war with Carmen.”
I search his face.
For lies.
For manipulation.
For control.
All I see is a man who looks like he hasn’t slept.
And behind that, something worse.
A man who’s afraid to choose.
“Tomorrow,” I say finally. “One date.”
Relief flashes across his face before he hides it.
“Tomorrow.”
I step back, leash hand tightening around Disco without thinking like the bird is an anchor.
“You don’t own me,” I remind him.
He nods once. “Not yet.”
The words send an unwanted curl of heat through my stomach. Disco whistles and mutters, “?Ay Dios!” like he’s scandalized.
Diablo walks me back to the Harley.
As I climb on again, Disco hops back to my shoulder, harness secure, crest up like he’s a tiny king returning to his throne.
I glance back toward the dark ocean.
Somewhere in the city, Carmen is watching the ripple effects of this moment. She will see the live. She will hear the story. She will smell blood in the water.
And just now, with sand in my heels and Diablo’s heat returning, something becomes painfully clear.
This is not just about love.
This is about territory.