Chapter 17-Rico
Eight days.
Eight days locked up in the condo with her, and it’s been amazing.
When we’re not wrapped around each other, we’re wrapped up in the music, in the lyrics, in the work.
It’s all flowing, building, the kind of magic people wait their whole lives for.
Fuck, I wish we could just stay here forever.
But we can’t. And we both know it.
Still, I’m afraid. Afraid this is all too new, too fragile.
Our love.
The trust we’re rebuilding.
It’s still soft in the middle, not hardened yet against the world.
Once Maya sees me out there with the public, with the flashing lights and hungry eyes, I don’t want her to forget.
That’s just a role I play.
That’s El Tigre.
The real me? The real Rico? He only exists with her.
But there’s a concert tonight. A private showcase at a small club in the heart of Manhattan.
The guy hosting has clout, and some of the other artists on the bill are friends— guys who gave me chances when I was nothing.
I can’t let them down.
So, we get ready. In silence.
I pull on the usual—black on black, some designer set dropped off by a fashion house desperate for their name in the paper.
It fits. It feels good. So, I don’t question it.
Boots.
A thin gold chain.
A chunky leather belt with a fat gold buckle.
My prescription sunglasses tucked into my jacket pocket. Armor.
I’m adjusting the buckle when I hear the bathroom door click open.
And then my mouth fucking drops open.
Maya steps out, and she’s— Christ.
She’s wearing this frothy, sheer confection of a dress that makes her tits look insane—high, full, begging for my hands, full cleavage on display.
The bodice hugs her curves, tight and perfect, then the fabric flows loose over the gentle swell of her belly, dropping to the floor in sheer swatches that flash her legs up to mid-thigh with every step.
I swear I forget how to breathe when she steps out of that bathroom.
Maya freezes me in my tracks.
Every single time.
Her amber eyes catch the light, warm and glowing, like liquid honey.
Her curves—my curves—are lush and womanly, all soft edges and tempting valleys, the kind of body a man could drown in and call it heaven.
She’s real. Flesh and blood. Beautiful in ways those fake plastic women could never touch.
And she’s mine.
“What are you wearing?”
The words rip out of me before my brain can catch up, rough and hungry.
She falters, frowning, her hand going immediately to her bump like a shield. “Oh, is it, um, is it okay?”
I hate that she has doubts about her looks. That she doesn’t see how perfect she is. But that’s my job, and I’ll make damn sure she knows it by the time I’m through.
“Do you look okay? Nah, Maya. You don’t look okay ,” I growl, already stalking toward her.
My chest feels like it might crack open from how fucking gorgeous she looks.
“You look like a fucking goddess, Mami. ”
“I do?”
“You do. And I’m thinking I’m gonna be knocking some heads together before the night is over.”
“What are you talking about?” She shakes her head and grins, smoothing out the fabric of her dress.
Maya thinks I’m joking.
I’m not. And if any of those pricks there tonight even glances at my woman for one second too long—I won’t be responsible for what I do to them.
She is stunning .
The way the dress clings to her, then flows free, skimming over her belly, flashing glimpses of her legs—it’s like it was made for her and for me— but just to test every ounce of my control.
I can’t stop myself.
I cup her throat gently, my thumb brushing along her jaw as I tilt her face up to mine. It’s a possessive move, but that’s just how I feel about her.
Possessive. Obsessed. Unhinged.
She shivers under my touch, those perfect lips parting just enough, like she’s begging me to kiss her.
So I do.
I drag her into a kiss that’s messy, greedy, hot enough to smear her lipstick all over both of us.
I don’t care. That’s the point.
Because this is a claim. My mark.
She’s mine, and I want every single person who lays eyes on her tonight to know it. To see her walk into that club glowing, stunning, untouchable—and to understand that she belongs to me.
Because she’s walking temptation, and I’ll be damned if I let anyone forget who she belongs to.
The SUV slows, then jerks to a stop at the curb outside the club. My stomach knots tight before the door even opens.
The second my boots hit the concrete, I’m blinded.
Camera flashes explode like fucking gunfire— white-hot bursts strobing against the night sky, searing my vision.
The velvet ropes groan under the weight of bodies pressing in, people shouting, jostling, waving cameras and cell phones.
Security lines the walkway, trying to hold the chaos back, but it’s like trying to dam a flood with bare hands.
The noise is deafening. Voices clash together in an ugly chorus—my name, her name, shouted questions, insults, demands.
It feels like stepping into a battlefield.
And Maya’s right beside me.
Fuck.
The paparazzi descend like wolves, rabid, their cameras snapping so fast the sound is indistinguishable from machine gun fire.
Shutters click, lights burn, microphones shove forward like weapons.
I hear it in an instant.
The way they call her name. Her real name.
They know. Somehow these vultures know she’s Alberto Gold’s daughter.
“Maya Gold!”
“El Tigre out on the town with a record exec’s daughter! Career move?”
“Did Rico throw over Diablita for the Gold Records heiress?”
“Is that a baby bump already? What about Lucy, Rico?”
Every word is a bullet.
My blood runs cold.
Because me? I can take the hits. I’ve been taking them since day one— scraps on the streets, backroom deals, contracts designed to bleed me dry.
I can fight. I can survive.
But my sweet Songbird? My Maya?
She doesn’t deserve this. She didn’t sign up for this slaughter.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like a star. I don’t feel untouchable.
I feel like a man who just put the woman he loves in front of a fucking firing squad.
And it sucks. It fucking guts me.
My instincts go feral. I want to grab her, throw her back in the SUV, tell Chuy to floor it and take us anywhere but here.
I want to burn every camera to the ground and tear the world apart until it shuts the fuck up about her.
But then— her hand.
Soft. Steady. Resting against my elbow.
I look down, and she’s smiling. Smiling.
The crowd, the questions, the lights— they’re knives slashing through us, but she’s calm, her chin lifted, her hand anchoring me in place.
And somehow, with just that one touch, she stops the storm raging in my chest.
She’s so fucking good.
Better than me. Better than this whole goddamn circus.
And as the vultures scream and the lights burn, I realize something brutal and undeniable:
They can tear me apart all they want.
But as long as I have her hand on me, I’ll stand my ground.