“It’s complicated,” he says.
I laugh, bitter. “Everything with you is complicated.”
“No,” he says, sharp. “It’s simple. It’s just not easy.”
“Then say it.”
He exhales like he hates this, like he hates strings and politics and debts.
“I can’t break it yet,” he admits.
The words land heavy and sharp.
“Why not?”
“Because Carmen isn’t just Carmen,” he says. “She’s Rafael’s daughter. She’s the symbol. The bloodline. The reason half of Miami didn’t tear my throat out when I took the seat.”
I hate that it makes sense.
I hate it more that I can hear truth in his voice.
“So I’m what,” I whisper. “A secret?”
His gaze snaps to mine, fierce. “No.”
“Then what am I?”
His voice roughens. “You’re the only thing that ever felt like mine before all this. You’re the only thing that still does.”
Heat floods low and dangerous, my body betraying me even while my pride screams.
“I’m not asking you to be a secret,” he says. “I’m asking you to give me time.”
Time sounds like a lie men tell women to keep them soft.
But Diablo looks wrecked, and his hands stay clenched at his sides like he is holding himself back from touching me because he knows it will make everything worse.
“Time for what,” I whisper.
“Time to end this without getting my brothers killed.”
That hits hard.
“And what about me?” I ask. “What happens to me while you figure out your politics?”
“You stay alive,” he says immediately.
I laugh again, but it cracks. “That’s a low bar.”
He crouches so he is eye level with me, voice dropping into something rougher, something honest.
“You think I want you scared of her?” he murmurs. “You think I want you in the crossfire?”
“I think I already am.”
He nods once. “Yeah.”
Then he reaches out slowly, giving me time to pull away.
