Diablo’s expression goes dead cold.
Not anger.
Not loud.
Just empty of mercy.
“Step away from her,” he says, voice low and calm, the kind of calm that makes men die.
Rico’s hand shakes. “She’s mine,” he spits like he’s trying to convince himself. “You don’t get to just take what’s mine.”
Diablo takes one step into the room, then another, slow and inevitable.
Rico points the gun at me and my breath catches hard.
Diablo doesn’t stop walking.
“Diablo,” I whisper, and my voice cracks.
His eyes flick to me for a second, and in that second I see pure wreckage and pure possession, a man holding himself together by violence and will.
“I got you,” he says soft enough it feels like it’s only for me. “I got you, cariño.”
Rico screams, “Stop,” and his finger tightens.
Everything slows.
The air turns thick and electric.
My heartbeat becomes a drum in my ears.
This is where people die.
Diablo moves.
Fast.
A shot cracks through the apartment, loud enough to fracture the night inside my tiny living room.
Rico jerks.
His gun clatters to the floor.
He staggers back, eyes wide, mouth open like he can’t believe consequences exist.
He crumples, clutching his side, blood darkening his shirt.
My stomach flips. I gasp, shaking so hard my teeth chatter.
Diablo is on him in a second, gun trained on Rico’s head, his whole body a controlled storm.
Rico wheezes. “You can’t,” he gurgles. “You can’t kill me.”
Diablo’s voice is flat.
“Watch me.”
I choke out his name again, smaller this time.
