Chapter 21-Rico
Days since the show, and the headlines are still going crazy.
Some call me reckless.
Some say Diablita broke my heart, and this is a rebound thing.
Some call Maya a gold-digger.
Some call our relationship a PR stunt.
I don’t give a fuck what they call it—but I do get mad. I threaten one reporter, and I entice another with an exclusive interview after the baby is born if they just fucking cool it.
Worse than the media frenzy, though, is my agent.
I know Matheson’s losing his shit.
I don’t know what the sleazy motherfucker is up to, but I know it’s not good.
My lawyer’s been on the phone with me for three days straight, muttering about Matheson going AWOL. He’s not returning my lawyer’s calls or letters.
He’s a bastard, but lately, something isn’t right. He’s hiding, maybe. Scheming, definitely.
Whatever.
Let him crawl in the shadows.
Because I’ve got better things to focus on.
Maya pulled strings with her old connections, booked us time in a recording studio. It’s not my usual spot, but a place where I can breathe without Matheson’s stink in the walls.
Somewhere I can lay down new tracks, with her words.
Her words.
She finalized the lyrics on our newest song just yesterday.
I read them, and fuck— my heart damn near beat out of my chest .
This woman, my woman, is a goddamn poet.
Her understanding of my melodies, of the notes I write for her— only for her —it moves me like nothing else ever has.
She writes like she’s inside my head, pulling the music out of me and giving it a soul.
And it’s not just the words. It’s her.
The fact that she can write Spanish lyrics like a native but still can’t roll her r’s to save her life?
That’s Maya. My Maya.
My favorite quirk, the one no one else gets to see.
The one that reminds me she’s real, flesh and blood, not some dream I imagined.
But those lyrics— fuck.
They’re so good.
Dirty. Sexy. Hot.
The chorus has been stuck in my head since I read it, a slow, grinding rhythm that’s pure sex. First, I sing it in Spanish.
“Tócame lento, hasta que queme,
tu nombre escrito en mi piel sin vergüenza.
No hay escenario, no hay canción ? —
solo tú dentro de mí, rompiéndome el corazón.”
Then again in English.
“Touch me slow, until it burns,
your name written on my skin without shame.
There’s no stage, no song ? —
just you inside me, breaking my heart.”
Tell me that’s not fire.
Tell me the world won’t go fucking insane when they hear me sing her words.
And the thought of laying them down on a track, of her sitting there in the booth, headphones on, watching me pour it all out?
Yeah, that’s the future.
Our future.
And as I make plans inside my head for how I want this song to go down, I think maybe I need another tattoo—her name right over my heart. Inspired by her lyrics.
Yeah. I’m gonna get that done. Gonna wear her name proudly for the whole world to see.
“Ready?” Maya asks, her amber eyes lit with that fire that always inspires me.
“Yeah, Mami, I’m ready,” I murmur, cupping her cheek and pressing my lips to hers, soft but sure.
I guide her inside, glaring at the bodyguards Chuy hired for today.
The Sigma guys will be here soon, but we figured this place was off the radar.
Private. Safe.
I was so fucking wrong.
Half an hour into our session, the fucking doors burst open.
A tall man with mismatched eyes and power pulsating around him like a fucking strobe light strides in, flanked by a wall of professional muscle.
The kind of presence that makes even seasoned security freeze for half a beat.
My blood turns to ice.
I’m not a criminal. I’m a singer.
But if anyone— anyone —ever tried to hurt my Maya, I’d become a goddamn animal.
Rip them apart with my bare hands if I had to.
My chair scrapes back hard. I’m already moving before I can think.
“What the fuck? Who the hell are you? Maya! ”
Her name tears out of me. All my focus narrows to where she sits— pale, wide-eyed, clutching her belly.
I run to her.
The man tilts his head, cool and unbothered.
His mismatched eyes glint like a predator’s.
“You’re not seriously interested in her, are you?” he asks, voice low but carrying.
Rage spikes in me, pure and white-hot. “Interested? She’s my wife . And she’s pregnant. Por favor, don’t hurt mi esposa.”
My words tumble out in a mess of English and Spanish, frantic, raw.
I don’t even care if I sound weak. I’ll beg. I’ll crawl. I’ll throw myself at his feet if it means Maya walks out of here unharmed.
Because she’s everything. Without her, I’m nothing but empty sound.
The man studies me, unflinching.
“I’m not here to hurt her. But I want to know why you keep fucking with my wife when you have your own.”
“My wife?”
The words hit like a slap. And then it clicks. Lucy Volkov.
“Your wife? Oh shit. You’re the man who married Diablita ?”
My chest seizes. Of course. El Tigre and La Diablita splashed across tabloids for months.
And the man standing here? He’s no two-bit punk. This guy radiates power. Danger.
I force myself to stand taller even as fear eats me alive. Maya is trembling beside me, and that makes the choice for me. I lay it all out. I beg if I have to.
“Look, sir,” I rasp, “that was all my manager. Every bit of it. I love my wife. Only my wife. ”
I wrap Maya in my arms, pulling her tight to me, relieved down to my bones when she leans into me willingly.
“The flowers?” the man asks suddenly, his mismatched gaze sharp.
My head jerks back. “What flowers?”
“You didn’t send Lucy flowers?”
“No. Not me, hermano . My manager handled all that PR shit. I-I like Lucy, qué linda, sí? But my heart?” I press Maya closer, my voice breaking. “There’s only room for my wife and my baby. That’s it.”
He pauses.
Studies me.
And for a second, I think I said the wrong thing.
Finally, he nods.
“Sorry for the confusion.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding, my grip on Maya fierce.
“Oh, by the way,” he adds casually, “I bought this building. You like it here?”
My head spins. “The privacy is good,” I manage, my voice tight.
He starts to turn away, then glances back with one last barb.
“One more thing. How come you don’t sing like that on any of your singles?”
The question guts me.
Because he’s right.
“My manager,” I mutter bitterly. “He says once I top the charts, I can have creative control. The new single— the one he sent your wife —that’s the one he thinks will do it. But I mean no disrespect. I swear.”
He holds my gaze, unreadable.
Then he adds, “I’ll be in touch.”
And he keeps his word.
That man— Balor Cruz —he gets in touch with me a few weeks later.
Right after my manager’s body turns up dead in a fire in some abandoned building.
Do I mourn Matheson?
Not for one bloody second.
Because with Balor Cruz looking into my contract with Voce Records— and my lawyer working alongside him —for the first time in years, my hopes for the future feel real.