Cameras flash against the curb. Bass thumps through the walls behind us. The white roses are sealed in an evidence bag in Diablo’s hand, and every time I look at them, I feel Lady’s voice in my chest.
She wants blood. We’re giving her a show.
That is Lady. Bruised wrists wrapped in leather cuffs, split lip painted red again, chin up like the whole city is a stage built under her heels.
I watch her stand beside Shady near the black SUV, not touching him, not letting him touch her, but somehow making the space between them feel dirtier than a kiss. He stands exactly where she told him to stand. Close enough to kill for her. Far enough to prove he can listen. His jaw is locked, his eyes are on every rooftop, every photographer, every valet who looks too long.
Lady tilts her head toward him.
“You following me, blanquito?”
His mouth twitches. “I was thinking about it.”
“Try again.”
“I’m driving behind you at a respectful distance while silently hating every second of it.”
She points at him with one black-painted nail. “Better.”
“Still sounds like bullshit.”
“It is, but prettier.”
“Story of Miami.”
I almost smile.
Almost.
Then Lady glances back at me, and the smile dies before it can make it to my face.
She looks alive.
She also looks like if somebody breathes wrong near her, she will either break or burn the building down. Maybe both. Probably both.
“You okay?” I ask.
Her expression softens for half a second. Just for me.
“No,” she says. “But I’m going home.”
“With me behind her,” Shady says.
Lady’s eyes cut to him.
He lifts both hands. “Behind. Not inside. Not unless you say.”
She studies him.
He lets her.
That part matters. It matters so much I feel it in my bruised bones. Shady, road captain, smartass, too pretty for his own damn sins, standing there with all that violence chained behind his teeth because Lady told him no and he listened.
“Fine,” she says. “You can be my shadow, gringo. But shadows don’t talk.”
Shady nods solemnly. “Tragic. My best feature is my mouth.”
Lady’s gaze drops there.
