Chapter 22-Maya
I still can’t believe it.
As of thirteen hours ago, Rico is free.
Free from Voce Records.
Free from that snake Matheson.
Free from every chain that’s been dragging him down since before I even knew him.
And I am so fucking glad.
Because now? Now it’s just us.
We’ve been working nonstop, writing feverishly ever since that day Balor Cruz stormed into the studio like some avenging angel.
That man? He’s a total psycho for his wife—absolutely unhinged—but I get it.
I respect it.
I live it—because Rico? Yeah, pretty sure he feels the same way about me.
Did I mention he got a tattoo with the word Songbird above his heart and a series of notes I thought were decoration but are actually the opening bars of Fuego Lento.
No, I don’t hate the song even though it was part of why I ran. Truth is, I wrote that song for him. Because loving him built inside me like a slow fire, and I am just so glad we finally got our shit worked out.
But back to scary ass Balor Cruz. Hell, he’s the inspiration for the song Rico and I just finished.
Call it a kind of apology—our way of reclaiming the mess Matheson made with Fuego Lento and the one after that, plus all the garbage he tried to force on Rico when I wasn’t around.
But this new song?
This one is different.
It’s hot, yeah—but not in the “I wanna drag you into bed right now” kind of way.
It’s deeper. More primal. It’s about a couple—Lucy ( who I’ve met and adore ) and Balor ( who’s just as feral for her as Rico is for me ).
So this song? It’s about obsession dressed up as reverence. Desire sharpened into worship.
And I don’t think anyone’s done anything like it before.
The melody is all Rico— slow, heavy bass, drums that mimic your heartbeat, strings that ache, horns that sting like heat against your skin.
The rhythm is pure sex, pulsing low in your stomach, dragging you along until you can’t help but move with it.
Then the words come in—yearning, reverent, reverberating with this ache that makes you shiver.
A man singing not about taking, but about watching .
About knowing this beautiful woman belongs to someone else, and that she burns too hot to be touched.
It’s called Ella es de él.
She is his.
It’s El Tigre’s next hit single.
But what surprises me most is that the title was Rico’s idea.
And yes, I remember exactly how it happened.
We were in the bath together, steam curling against mirrored walls, our reflections multiplying the sight of us until it felt like we were drowning in our own desire.
Rico had me perched on his lap, his big tanned hands roaming my body, staking claim with every touch.
“See that woman, Mami? ” he whispered, his breath teasing my ear, making goosebumps rise along my skin.
“Uh huh,” I murmured, already melting against him, my thighs trembling as he spread them wider.
“ Ella es de él, ” he said, low and certain, his voice like honey and smoke.
“What?” I panted, turning my head to catch his eyes in the glass.
“She is his. Right there. See? How she belongs to him? How perfectly she fits him?”
And I realized—he wasn’t talking about Lucy and Balor.
He was talking about us.
Me. Him.
The way I fit against him, molded to his chest, claimed by his hands.
Then he lifted me by the hips, muscles flexing, and brought me down on the hard, pulsing staff of his cock, impaling me with one deep thrust that made my whole body quake.
“Mine,” he growled against my throat, his lips hot, his voice wrecked.
And in that moment, I knew exactly what he meant.
I’m his.
And he’s mine.
Always.
And stepping out of myself for a moment?
It was like watching from outside my own body, catching a glimpse of something too rare, too precious, to ever really put into words.
Seeing the two of us— me and Rico —so in love, so perfectly locked together, every kiss, every touch, every breath in sync, well, it was surreal.
Like the kind of scene you only read about in books or hear about in the kind of love songs that outlive their singers.
It was perfect.
Not because it was polished or choreographed or some fairytale happily-ever-after moment, but because it was raw. Real. Us.
Every scar, every mistake, every secret we’d dragged into the light was there between us, and still—we fit.
We burned.
It was more than sex. More than lust. It was inspirational.
Because if we could survive everything— the lies, the tabloids, the shadows of the industry, our own fears —and still find this fire together?
Then maybe love wasn’t just a dream. Maybe it was the truth we’d been writing toward all along.
And with Rico’s arms wrapped tight around me, his voice a low growl in my ear, I knew I’d never run from it again.
We have a party to go to tonight.
It’s the unveiling of the new song and the video that goes with it, and I’m so excited I can hardly sit still. It feels like the beginning of something huge— like all the chaos, all the pain, all the sleepless nights have led us right here.
Lucy and Balor are hosting it at their place in Verona. I’m excited to see them. They’ve been wonderful these last couple of weeks— intense, yes, but warm too. Protective.
It’s funny how quickly they’ve become part of our world, and I only hope this friendship and partnership keeps growing. Because for once, the people around us feel like allies instead of wolves.
My husband is out right now, handling last-minute things before we leave for the evening, so it’s just me in our condo.
I walk slowly from room to room, taking it all in, and I can’t help but note the order I’ve made out of the chaos that was Rico’s decorating style since he moved in.
See, my man? He’s a lot of things. Brilliant. Passionate. A musical genius. A sex god.
But when it comes to neatness and interior design? A total disaster.
I grin as I fluff the floral patterned pillows I just bought for the new dove-gray leather sofas we picked out together.
It’s a little touch of softness against his sleek, masculine taste—our compromise.
Our home, even if it’s just for now.
He keeps saying this place is temporary. That he wants to build a big house in Montclair someday. A forever home.
But that’s the future. Right now, this condo is close to the studio and perfect for what we need.
My hand goes to my belly, curved and steady beneath my palm.
Our little boy. Growing so fast.
Rico swears he’s destined to play soccer because of how much he kicks—strong and relentless.
I laugh every time he says it. I don’t mind what he does.
Soccer, painting houses, writing songs, cooking.
It doesn’t matter. As long as he’s healthy. As long as he’s happy.
My thoughts drift, warm and content, until a sharp buzz from the intercom startles me.
I blink, grin, and move toward the panel to answer. The building has its own security, but ever since we partnered with Balor and Lucy, Sigma International guards have been stationed with us around the clock.
The thought soothes me a little. We’re safe here.