Chapter 13
Darling
When he says one real date, I expect leather and maybe a different stretch of sand somewhere south of South Beach. I imagine the Harley growling outside my building, Diablo propped against it with that dark, restless energy that always makes Miami seem more contained when he’s around.
I don’t expect a suit.
After Ocean Drive, I go home furious and wired, my nerves still buzzing like the city plugged them straight into neon. I feed Disco, check the locks twice, and sit on my couch staring at Diablo’s last message until the screen dims.
Around midnight, another text comes through.
One date. No club. No cameras. No Disco bird. No panties.
I laugh out loud, but I don’t text back anything but the time to pick me up.
I tell myself I said yes because I want proof, he can show up different.
The truth is uglier.
I want to see if he can still make me feel without reminding me he’s still sleeping with her.
Disco stays in my apartment tonight, safe in his big ridiculous cage Diablo bought, crest puffed and offended that I’m leaving. When I shut the door, he whistles once like he’s calling me a traitor, then mutters, “?Dale!” like he’s sending me into battle anyway.
At exactly seven o’clock a black Mercedes glides to the curb outside my building.
The engine purrs low and expensive, the kind of sound that belongs in valet lines outside luxury hotels, not parked beside a cracked sidewalk in Little Havana.
When he said no club, I didn’t dare dream that he meant no motorcycle.
I watch through the blinds for one second longer than I need to.
Then I open the door. The air outside is thick, humid, and loud with life. A car rolls past with bass shaking its doors. Somewhere down the block, a ventanita is still serving cafecito like it’s holy water.
When I step outside and see him, I forget how to breathe.
Diablo Vargas stands beside the car like he walked out of a completely different world.
The charcoal suit fits him like it was custom cut for his body, jacket sharp across his shoulders and narrow at his waist. A crisp white shirt stretches beneath it, top buttons undone just enough that ink peeks out along his collarbone. Even dressed clean, he isn’t clean.
You can still see him.
The faint scar at his throat. The darker marks at his knuckles. The way his hands look like they’ve done violence and kept living. The tattoos don’t disappear because he put on a suit. They just get framed like a warning.
For the first time since I met him, he doesn’t look like a biker.
He looks like a man who learned how to treat a lady and still rule the street afterward.
“You clean up nice,” I say, trying to keep my voice from giving away how hard my heart just kicked.
His eyes move slowly down my body, lingering long enough to make heat creep up my neck.
“You look dangerous,” he replies.
The cream silk dress hugs me exactly the way the other one did last night. The diamond bracelet catches the streetlight when I shift my arm, scattering little flashes across the pavement. My hair is pinned back tonight, exposing my neck and shoulders.
For a moment neither of us move.
Then he steps forward and offers his hand.
“Ready?”
I hesitate long enough to remind both of us this is my choice. That I’m not being pulled back into his gravity without a fight.
Then I slide my hand into his.
His palm is warm. Steady.
And at the edge of the streetlight, I see another shape move.
A man in leather, cut on, standing back like he’s just part of the night. He doesn’t stare at me. He watches the sidewalk, the cars, the corners. An enforcer. A shadow.
Diablo catches my glance and says quietly, “He stays close. He doesn’t come near.”
“I didn’t ask for a babysitter,” I mutter.
“You didn’t,” he agrees. “You got one anyway.”
That should piss me off. He said no club.
It does.
It also makes my pulse slow down a notch.
The first surprise comes ten minutes later.
The Mercedes glides to a stop at a private marina tucked between glass towers along Biscayne Bay. The sun is dropping toward the horizon, turning the water into molten gold. Boats sway gently against polished docks. Seabirds circle overhead like they own the sky.
I stare past him at the sleek white yacht waiting at the end of the pier.
“You rented this?” I ask.
He shakes his head once.
“I own it. Well, I own the man who owns it.”
Of course he does.
Men like him don’t rent. They take.
And I know where his money comes from. It isn’t clean contracts and polite invoices.
It’s crime dressed up in strategy. A one percenter club doesn’t become an empire by playing fair.
Saints Outlaws money runs through Miami like blood through veins, hidden under tattoos, protecting businesses and handshake deals that smell like gunpowder.
He guides me down the dock with his hand at the small of my back, steadying me although the planks don’t shift beneath my heels like I expect them to. The yacht rocks gently as we step aboard. The deck gleams under our feet, polished teak warm from the day’s heat.
Soft music drifts through hidden speakers.
Not reggaeton.
Not club bass.
Old Cuban jazz.
Inside the cabin kitchen, a chef works quietly over gleaming pans.
My eyebrows lift. “Is that…”
“He flew in from Havana this morning,” Diablo says casually. “You always liked ropa vieja done right.”
I turn slowly toward him.
“You remember that?”
His expression shifts, something almost offended flickering across his face.
“I remember everything about you.”
The yacht pulls away from the dock as the chef begins plating the first course. Miami rises behind us in glowing towers of glass and steel. From the water, the city looks unreal, like a postcard version of itself, like it didn’t bite people in alleys and drown secrets in the bay.
Diablo pours wine into two crystal glasses.
Not the cheap kind.
We sit across from each other at a small table on the deck while the chef delivers dish after dish with quiet precision. The breeze moves through the open air, carrying the smell of the ocean and the distant hum of traffic from the causeway.
He watches me take the first bite like he’s waiting on a verdict.
“Well?” he asks.
I chew slowly, letting the flavor settle.
“It’s perfect.”
Satisfaction flashes through his eyes.
He looks different tonight. The tension that usually lives in his shoulders has eased. His jacket hangs open as he leans back, skyline reflections faint in his dark eyes.
“I didn’t know how to be both,” he says after a moment.
“Both what?”
“Prez and yours.”
The vulnerability in his voice hits harder than the luxury surrounding us.
“You chose,” I remind him.
“I chose survival.”
“And what am I?”
He doesn’t hesitate.
“The only thing that ever made me want more than survival.”
The words settle into the quiet between us like something fragile.
Night spreads slowly across the bay. One by one, city lights flicker on until Miami glows like a field of stars.
When dinner ends, he stands and holds out his hand again.
“Come here.”
I swallow hard, and give him my hand.
I let him pull me toward the bow of the yacht. Wind lifts strands of my hair as the boat cuts through the water. Behind us the skyline stretches bright and seductive against the dark sky.
He steps behind me.
His hands slide gently to my waist.
Not grabbing.
Holding.
His chin brushes my shoulder.
“Three years,” he murmurs. “And you still fit right here.”
My body leans back into him before my pride can stop it.
His lips skim just below my ear.
My pulse jumps.
“Don’t,” I whisper.
“Why?”
“Because I’m trying to be strong.”
He turns me slowly until I’m facing him.
“Being strong doesn’t mean pretending you don’t feel it.”
His fingers trace along my jaw, careful, as if he’s afraid the wrong pressure will break me.
My breath stutters.
He leans closer.
Our lips hover inches apart.
I can feel the restraint humming through his body, the control he wears like armor.
And the hunger under it.
Then the roar of helicopter blades slices through the night.
I pull back, startled.
He smiles faintly.
“That’s ours.”
“Ours?”
“I called in a favor.”
The yacht docks beside a private helipad. The helicopter waits there, rotors already turning. A pilot stands nearby, expression neutral in the way people look when they’ve learned not to ask questions.
“This is insane,” I say.
Diablo takes my hand again, firm and warm. “Get in.”
Moments later we’re rising above Miami.
The city spreads beneath us like a glowing circuit board. South Beach curves in a bright crescent. The Atlantic stretches black and endless beyond.
Diablo sits close enough that our thighs touch.
Through the headset he speaks quietly, voice low like it’s meant for my bones.
“Saints control this city. I thought it would matter.”
“And?”
“It doesn’t.”
I glance at him.
“Not without you.”
The honesty in his voice is intoxicating.
It’s also terrifying.
Because a man like Diablo doesn’t say that unless he’s either lying, or he’s ready to burn down his own life for the truth.
When we land again, the city feels smaller somehow.
The final stop waits on a rooftop in Brickell.
Candles flicker along the edges of a private terrace. A small band plays live salsa beneath the stars. The music drifts through warm air, smooth and sensual. The skyline behind them glitters like money.
“You always wanted to learn,” he says.
He takes my hand.
The moment the music picks up, he pulls me into the rhythm.
He dances the same way he fights.
Controlled.
Focused.
Dominant.
His palm slides along my back as my hips start moving with the beat. The band’s horns swell. The city lights shimmer beyond the edge of the rooftop.
“You’re staring,” I murmur.
“I’m remembering.”
Heat builds between us again.
The same tension from the yacht returns, thicker now.
Almost a kiss.
Almost surrender.
Then the waiter approaches.
He carries a tray of champagne flutes, but his attention is fixed entirely on me. His smile is smooth in that Miami way, like he’s flirting for sport and expects applause.
“You’re absolutely stunning tonight,” he says, very familiar.
Recognizing him, I realize he knows me from Little Havana.
“If you ever get tired of bikers…”
I try to place his name but fail. He’s just another server who apparently worked his way up the hospitality ladder.
Still, Diablo’s body goes rigid beside me.
I feel it before I see it, like a storm shifting direction.
“Careful,” I murmur under my breath, warning the waiter as much as I’m warning Diablo.
The waiter chuckles like he thinks this is safe because it’s Brickell and there are candles and a band and money in the air. And I’m just a girl from Little Havana.
Out of place.
Suddenly, I feel like I’m playing dress up.
“Just saying,” he continues, eyes still on me, “some women deserve better company.”
The shift in Diablo is immediate.
His jaw tightens. His shoulders go still. His eyes go cold, not jealous, not loud.
Lethal.
His biker guard is rushing toward us all of the sudden. But Diablo holds up his arm and stops him.
Phones start to tilt. Heads turn. Miami loves a show.
“Walk away,” I tell the waiter quickly.
He doesn’t. He rolls his eyes.
Big mistake.
Diablo moves before I can breathe in.
One clean punch.
The waiter drops like his legs forgot how to hold him.
Gasps ripple across the rooftop. The salsa band falters mid-note. Glass clinks as someone sets a drink down too hard.
“Diablo!” I shout.
He stands over the man breathing hard, fists clenched. The suit doesn’t make him civilized. It just makes the violence look expensive.
“You don’t speak to her like that,” he says.
“He complimented me!” I snap, stepping back, adrenaline flooding fast.
“He disrespected me.”
“There it is,” I say quietly.
He turns toward me, anger still burning in his eyes.
“You’ll never change.”
His expression falters, just a flicker.
“I was protecting you.”
“From what? Words?”
“He was undermining me.”
“This isn’t about you,” I snap.
“It’s always about me,” he shoots back, and the honesty is brutal. “Anyone who touches what’s mine…”
I flinch.
There it is again.
Mine.
The word lands wrong. Too close to Rico. Too close to doors that lock and hands that grab.
I grab my clutch from the table.
“I’m not a territory dispute.”
“Darling…”
“I can’t live like this,” I say, backing away. “I won’t.”
He reaches toward me.
I step out of reach.
“Three years and you’re still fighting the world with your fists,” I tell him. “I need someone who fights for me without destroying everything around us.”
His chin lifts, stubborn as stone.
“I am fighting for you.”
“You’re fighting everyone.”
His eyes flick to the crowd. To the phones. To the way this is already turning into a rumor.
Then back to me, like he doesn’t care what it costs as long as he wins the moment.
“I’m going home.”
For once, he doesn’t argue.
Diablo stays still while I step away to call an Uber.
He doesn’t reach for me.
He just watches.
Like he already knows I’m slipping through his fingers.
And for the first time since this all started again, he’s not sure he can pull me back.