The waiter chuckles like he thinks this is safe because it’s Brickell and there are candles and a band and money in the air. And I’m just a girl from Little Havana.
Out of place.
Suddenly, I feel like I’m playing dress up.
“Just saying,” he continues, eyes still on me, “some women deserve better company.”
The shift in Diablo is immediate.
His jaw tightens. His shoulders go still. His eyes go cold, not jealous, not loud.
Lethal.
His biker guard is rushing toward us all of the sudden. But Diablo holds up his arm and stops him.
Phones start to tilt. Heads turn. Miami loves a show.
“Walk away,” I tell the waiter quickly.
He doesn’t. He rolls his eyes.
Big mistake.
Diablo moves before I can breathe in.
One clean punch.
The waiter drops like his legs forgot how to hold him.
Gasps ripple across the rooftop. The salsa band falters mid-note. Glass clinks as someone sets a drink down too hard.
“Diablo!” I shout.
He stands over the man breathing hard, fists clenched. The suit doesn’t make him civilized. It just makes the violence look expensive.
“You don’t speak to her like that,” he says.
“He complimented me!” I snap, stepping back, adrenaline flooding fast.
“He disrespected me.”
“There it is,” I say quietly.
He turns toward me, anger still burning in his eyes.
“You’ll never change.”
His expression falters, just a flicker.
“I was protecting you.”
“From what? Words?”
“He was undermining me.”
“This isn’t about you,” I snap.
“It’s always about me,” he shoots back, and the honesty is brutal. “Anyone who touches what’s mine…”
