Disco rides on my shoulder in a little harness and leash like a tiny, feathered bodyguard. He’s been whistling at strangers all afternoon and yelling “¡Dale!” at cars like he’s directing traffic. Lady called it “branding.” I called it emotional support. Either way, he’s here, crest half up, judging the world.
The Lamborghini announces itself before anyone even sees it.
The engine growls low and arrogant, the kind of sound that turns heads before the car even appears. Matte black paint glides beneath the Miami streetlights as Mateo eases throughlate-night traffic on Ocean Drive. The doors alone probably cost more than my entire apartment building.
Mateo Cruz grins at me from behind oversized designer sunglasses even though the sun went down hours ago. His teeth are too white and his confidence is too polished, the kind that comes from living life online where everything is curated and nothing is real.
“You ready, princesa?” he asks, leaning across the console.
His phone sits mounted to the dash, camera angled perfectly so it catches both of us in frame.
Of course it does.
Disco leans forward on my shoulder and stares at the phone like it insulted his mother.
“¡Hola!” he squawks suddenly, loud enough to make Mateo flinch. Then he adds, softer and smug, “¡Mami!”
Mateo laughs like that’s adorable. “Oh, she came with a hype man.”
“He’s a cockatoo,” I say, smoothing Disco’s feathers. “And he’s mean.”
“Perfect,” Mateo says, like mean is a compliment.
Tonight I’m wearing one of the dresses Diablo sent.
Emerald silk hugs my waist like it was sewn onto my body. The neckline dips just low enough to make men stare twice before they remember their manners. My hair falls loose down my back in glossy waves, and the diamond bracelet he sent catches every flicker of neon bouncing off the hood of the car.
If Diablo wants to throw money at me, fine.
I will weaponize every damn dollar.
Mateo taps his phone screen and the small red icon lights up.
“We’re live,” he says.
Of course we are.
The Instagram comments start flooding across the screen instantly. Fire emojis. Heart eyes. Questions. Speculation. Hundreds of strangers staring through a phone at a version of me they think they understand.
Mateo angles the camera closer to my face like he’s unveiling a prize.
“This,” he says dramatically, “is the mystery woman.”
I lean into it because that is what you do when someone turns life into a performance.
I tilt my chin slightly and let the glow of Ocean Drive reflect off the windshield in pink and blue streaks. The neon signs outside beachfront bars smear across the glass like watercolor. Tourists spill onto sidewalks in linen shirts and heels, loud and sunburned and fearless. Reggaeton pulses from open patios. A cop cruiser rolls slow like it’s watching for an excuse.
“Say hi,” Mateo encourages.
I smile like the city belongs to me.
“Hola, Miami.”
The comment section explodes.
Disco whistles, then says, crisp as hell, “¡Qué bonita!” like he’s complimenting me on purpose.
Mateo laughs harder, clearly enjoying the reaction.
