“She’s trouble,” he says to the camera.
If only he knew.
We cruise down Ocean Drive with the top down. Humid night air whips my hair, carrying salt water and expensive perfume from every rooftop bar we pass. Flashing lights reflect off the hood like we’re inside a music video.
It feels reckless.
It feels petty.
It feels good.
Mateo rests his hand casually on my thigh, positioning it just right so the camera catches the angle. The touch is light. Performative. A prop.
I don’t move it.
Because somewhere deep down, I know Diablo is watching.
He always watches.
The thought sends a current through my chest. Equal parts anger and something far more dangerous.
Disco tilts his head, eyes narrowing, then mutters, “No,” like he’s vetoing Mateo personally.
Mateo pulls into the valet line outside a waterfront restaurant hosting one of those private influencer dinners that seem to happen every night in Miami. The entrance is a wall of bodies and cameras and desperation. Velvet rope. A host with a headset. A promoter in a fitted suit whispering names like they’re passwords.
Influencers.
Models.
Crypto bros who look like they learned how to dress from motivational podcasts.
Everyone looks polished and expensive and slightly desperate.
Mateo shuts off the engine but keeps the live stream running.
“Let’s show them the car,” he says, climbing out.
The doors lift upward with slow mechanical drama.
Heads turn immediately.
Phones come out.
People love a spectacle.
I swing one leg out and stand slowly, letting the dress settle against my body. Disco adjusts his footing on my shoulder, crest rising like he’s impressed with the entrance.
Camera flashes pop from a group of girls near the sidewalk who clearly think Mateo is someone more important than he actually is.
And then I hear it.
A different engine.
Lower.
Rougher.
Familiar.
