But beneath the anger something dangerous stirs.
Flattered.
Wanted.
Chosen.
I type back before I can stop myself.
Me: I don’t need your money.
This time the reply takes longer.
Disco fills the silence by shouting, “¡Dale, mami!” like he’s coaching a fight.
Finally the phone buzzes.
Diablo: It’s not about money.
I stare at the message.
Because that is the part that scares me.
If it isn’t about money, then it’s about something deeper.
And deeper is a hell of a lot harder to walk away from.
Disco whistles once, then says, soft and smug, “¡Te ama!”
I freeze.
My throat tightens.
I don’t answer him.
But my hand drifts back to the bracelet anyway, fingers brushing the diamonds like they might burn.
They don’t.
They just glitter.
Chapter 12
Darling
Two days after the boxes showed up, Miami has already decided I’m a story again.
The rooftop shooting is a rumor people chew on like gum. The Saints Outlaws are a headline nobody prints in the paper but everybody whispers about. There are posts online, though.
Diablo’s three damn words still live under my skin like a bruise.
You deserve better.
So I do what Miami does best.
I perform.
Lady set me up on a date.
