When he says one real date, I expect leather and maybe a different stretch of sand somewhere south of South Beach. I imagine the Harley growling outside my building, Diablo propped against it with that dark, restless energy that always makes Miami seem more contained when he’s around.
I don’t expect a suit.
After Ocean Drive, I go home furious and wired, my nerves still buzzing like the city plugged them straight into neon. I feed Disco, check the locks twice, and sit on my couch staring at Diablo’s last message until the screen dims.
Around midnight, another text comes through.
One date. No club. No cameras. No Disco bird. No panties.
I laugh out loud, but I don’t text back anything but the time to pick me up.
I tell myself I said yes because I want proof, he can show up different.
The truth is uglier.
I want to see if he can still make me feel without reminding me he’s still sleeping with her.
Disco stays in my apartment tonight, safe in his big ridiculous cage Diablo bought, crest puffed and offended that I’m leaving. When I shut the door, he whistles once like he’s calling me a traitor, then mutters, “¡Dale!” like he’s sending me into battle anyway.
At exactly seven o’clock a black Mercedes glides to the curb outside my building. The engine purrs low and expensive, the kind of sound that belongs in valet lines outside luxury hotels, not parked beside a cracked sidewalk in Little Havana. When he said no club, I didn’t dare dream that he meant no motorcycle.
I watch through the blinds for one second longer than I need to.
Then I open the door. The air outside is thick, humid, and loud with life. A car rolls past with bass shaking its doors. Somewhere down the block, a ventanita is still serving cafecito like it’s holy water.
When I step outside and see him, I forget how to breathe.
Diablo Vargas stands beside the car like he walked out of a completely different world. The charcoal suit fits him like it was custom cut for his body, jacket sharp across his shoulders and narrow at his waist. A crisp white shirt stretches beneath it, top buttons undone just enough that ink peeks out along his collarbone. Even dressed clean, he isn’t clean.
You can still see him.
The faint scar at his throat. The darker marks at his knuckles. The way his hands look like they’ve done violence and kept living. The tattoos don’t disappear because he put on a suit. They just get framed like a warning.
For the first time since I met him, he doesn’t look like a biker.
He looks like a man who learned how to treat a lady and still rule the street afterward.
“You clean up nice,” I say, trying to keep my voice from giving away how hard my heart just kicked.
His eyes move slowly down my body, lingering long enough to make heat creep up my neck.
“You look dangerous,” he replies.
The cream silk dress hugs me exactly the way the other one did last night. The diamond bracelet catches the streetlight when I shift my arm, scattering little flashes across the pavement. My hair is pinned back tonight, exposing my neck and shoulders.
For a moment neither of us move.
Then he steps forward and offers his hand.
“Ready?”
I hesitate long enough to remind both of us this is my choice. That I’m not being pulled back into his gravity without a fight.
Then I slide my hand into his.
His palm is warm. Steady.
And at the edge of the streetlight, I see another shape move.
