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thekittysmeow · 8 days ago

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Ari, okay girl 😌😍❣️

“A final desperate, heartfelt plea that falls on ears that will never hear. Eyes that will never see. A mouth that will never again speak.” Say it with me yall p o e t r y

When’s the next update???

Side note… I feel like Roman dressed in tactical gear would’ve had me bent over the stair rails 😮‍💨😌

authors note: this might be the darkest topic/trope i've tackled since starting to write. the entire story will be heavily stockholm syndrome based, so if that's not your cup of tea, please give this one a skip. there will be some heavy, dark content to come, and it all starts off in this one.

there will be some "recreated" scenes from og ltye, but please, make no mistake, this is not ltye roso. this is a very different story that i'm telling with this one.

also, fetu is 100% dead in this au. has been for a very long time. if you've read og ltye, you know what fetu being in roman's life did for him. now you'll see what her not being in his life does to him.

cw/tw: angst. strong language. strong depictions of brutal, gory violence. reader discretion is strongly advised.

words: 7k

chapter song inspo: 'numb' by linkin park

masterlist

credit: story graphic made by me. tw divider by @cafekitsune and consent divider by @omi-resources

March 1, 2021

There are exactly two types of people in this world. Dress it up, doll it up, paint it, color it, decorate it however one pleases. When it’s all stripped down, left with nothing but the bare necessities and the naked truth, only two remain.

Those who ask, and those who take.

Those who ask. The people who believe chivalry and manners and things that just make sense—things that are good—should always take precedent. That the right way is the only way, regardless of the sticks, stones, rocks, and boulders that may hinder the path.

And, then there are those who see things a little….differently. Who recognize that as nice as the idea of goodness and morality is in theory, that’s all it is. A theory. Something that will never go beyond the idea of something being nice, because it never works out. Those who remain rooted in such ideology remain limited and stranded in this never-ending cycle of complacency. Accepting instead of demanding.

Compromise when one should never settle for less than what is owed.

What is due.

It’s a lesson Solana Miller learned many years ago. Not through means of trauma or tragedy, as is the story of most born into this life. The life where questions asked typically earn people bullets in their head or very little of what remains of them for the family to bury. Where deals are made that keep pockets filled, bank accounts overflowing with cash, commas after commas. A life of financial wealth and emotional poverty.

Again, the last of which, Solana has always been blessed to never be on the receiving end. Every birthday a big ordeal. Birthday parties even those beyond her parent’s tax bracket would envy. Gifts and family, hugs and kisses, love and joy. In a world so cold, she never felt so warm.

And, then, one grows up. One stops being the apple of her parent’s eye. Not in the ways she’s always been used to. She’s always felt their love. That’s never changed, but what has changed is her. Once a child, now a woman. And, in this world, women are seen as one thing.

Tools.

Pawns that can bring about the sweetest of deals and the most tragic of downfalls. Once again, Solana’s experience is not one of tragedy. At least, not for her family.

A soft knock on the door extracts her from existential thinking, the type of reflection one engages in when everything is about to change, and they have zero say in any of it.

None at all.

Closing the sketchbook that lays out on the bed, tucking it under the throw, smoothing her hand over the cotton to iron away any suspicious bulges, she moves from off her stomach to sit on the side of the bed. Ankles locked, lips pressed together, hands folded neatly in her lap, she clears her throat and calls out in the softest voice.

“Come in.”

There’s a brief second of regret, an initial wish to have tried to ignore it. To see what would happen if she didn’t say yes. If she pushed back for once. But, it’ll forever be a “what if” added to the seas and streams of will never know.

She watches the door open, shoulders straightening, brown locking with icy blue before a forced break as the other woman closes the door behind her.

Turned back around, hands locked behind her back, Beth Phoenix stands tall, intimidating, and unreadable. Familiar synonyms for most in this world, but not for women. Solana has only known a few women to be of the formidable nature, of the ilk where they don’t listen and wait like good, submissive women are supposed to be. Beth is the type of woman who scoffs at such things. Tall in stature, her figure is one of that who holds strength in all the ways that matter. Physically, emotionally, and mentally. Her thin lips, since Solana met her almost a week ago, have never exceeded a few centimeters upward. Never curved into a smile.

Not a genuine one, at least.

“You’re awake.”

Solana maintains the nature of her responses. Simple. “Yes.”

“Good.” Beth wastes no time in moving directly into her reason for the visit. “Cody will return from his trip by the end of the week.”

It’s funny. In a different world, in a different sort of reality, she might have a different sort of reaction. A smile, a thump of excitement that starts in her belly and travels up to her chest. The normal sort of reaction one would expect to receive from a woman who was just told her fiancé will be back home soon.

But, this isn’t that. Never was.

Perhaps never will be.

“Good.” Just because Solana doesn’t feel it, doesn’t mean she can’t try to fake it.

If only she remembered who she was talking to.

Beth flashes one of those smiles. The type that doesn’t meet the eye and only brings about a fresh set of waves of anxiety.

She takes a step closer, the click of her heels against the wooden floor the only thing that fills the bedroom, sans the subtle sounds of nature that creep through the slightly cracked bay window.

Solana is seconds away from subconsciously leaning back on the bed when Beth crouches in front of her, the slack of her dress pants highlighting the muscles in her legs.

“I know mami and daddy have created this fairy tale life for you. Made you believe that you’re this beautiful princess, and that we’ll bend over backwards to—”

Solana shakes her head, finding her voice, “that’s not—”

“I’m talking.” It has to be the most stoic and frigid method of silencing that she’s has ever experienced. “But, you’re not in Mexico anymore, princess. You’re in Nightmare Territory now, and that means you do whatever the hell we tell you to do. At home, you may be a queen? But, here?” She sneers, nose turned up. “You’re nothing more than Cody’s property.”

It shouldn’t hurt her feelings. Not in Solana’s opinion. Despite being set to marry this man in less than 10 days, one would have to have some sort of connections or feelings for a person in order to be hurt by the thought of not actually meaning anything to them. She doesn’t mean anything to Cody, and he doesn’t mean anything to her. She’s not even sure if that can or will change on his end, even as they get to know one another and become husband and wife. Especially what with the whispers she’s heard through the grapevine. Something about him being in love with another woman whose family isn’t in the business, so their marriage would not be considered advantageous, hence the inability for them to be together.

Solana is the forced option.

And, he is…..she doesn’t exactly know what yet. They’ve only spoken a couple of times and all occasions, she received little to go off of but came to the tentative conclusion that he’s a quiet man.

Only time will tell if that’s an accurate evaluation.

So, with the summarization, Beth’s words shouldn’t hurt Solana’s feelings.

But, they do.

They do.

Her lack of reaction, outwardly, seems to only further frustrate the woman before her. There’s a quick, sudden lift of her hand, Solana turning her head to brace for the impact that never arrives.

Beth’s groan draws her attention back to the front of her, allowing a clear, perfect view as to why Beth’s hand never makes contact with Solana’s face.

His grip on her wrist is tight, so much so that Solana can see the whitening of his fingers and knuckles. It’s a necessary level of force for the woman who she’s almost certain could maybe take him.

Maybe.

“You lay one hand on her, and I assure you, it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”

For the first time today, Solana smiles.

Chavo proceeds to stand up, forcing Beth to do the same, their gazes locked.

“She’s in Nightmare territory now. How long do you think you can protect her?”

From me. There’s an unspoken ‘from me’ with that. Unspoken or not, however, it triggers something for him.

“Until my last fucking breath.”

An oath repeated for as long as she can remember, because as far back as her memories go, there has been no Solana Miller without Chavo Escobar. A second cousin on her mother’s side and her assigned bodyguard from birth practically, the older man with a raspy voice and killer instinct has been more of a father figure to her than a somewhat distant relative. A second father she loves and cherishes deeply. And given his lack of children, she sometimes feels that he feels the same. Like, he views her as the daughter he never had.

His loyalty to her is unparalleled. Always has been.

Beth scoffs, jerking her wrist from his embrace as he subtle moves his body, angling himself so he’s almost in front of her, eclipsing a portion of her from Beth’s glare.

“We’ll see about that.”

It’s the last thing she says before walking out the room, the force of the door slamming and forcing the picture on the same wall to tremble and shake.

Left alone, she releases a heavy breath, catching the small smile on her cousin’s face. “She’s a joy.”

Solana is grateful for the attempts to lighten the mood. It doesn’t, however strip away the bitter taste left in her mouth from the uncomfortable exchange. “I’m not sure why she hates me so much.”

“Simple.” He reaches his hand, helping her to her feet as she brushes out the wrinkles on her dress. “You’re young and pretty. She’s old and washed up.”

Gasping quietly, Solana shakes her head. “That’s mean, primo.”

He waves her off dismissively, saying something in Spanish before his mouth settles into a sort of frown. “How are you really doing with all this?”

A great question that she has no answer for. Truth be told, Solana isn’t entirely sure that it’s really hit her yet. That the home she’s known her entire life—even the summers spent in Georgia, with her father’s side of the family—are a thing of the past. To make matters worse, her mother already hinted that she wouldn’t be able to visit for “a while” after the wedding.

The strokes of Alma brushing through Solana’s hair, working the product through, her voice soothing. A complete, stark contrast to the message being relayed. “It won’t be a good look, mija.”

At the time, Solana understood. But, right now, she’s having a hard time. A very hard time, because when one spends almost twenty-five years surrounded by friends and family, only to be plucked out and dropped into a different country, a strange city, and even stranger situation, it’s hard to adapt. Hard to be okay with any of it, but it’s the best word that comes to mind.

“I’m okay.”

And right away, she already knows what’s coming.

“You know you’ve never been a very good liar, hmm?” She rolls her eyes as her cousin pulls her against him. Solana inhales deeply, the scent of his cologne something familiar and comforting. Similar to the one her father uses. It’s all so reassuring. The feel of his arms around her. Reminds her of the security and warmth she feels every time her father holds and hugs her.

God, this is so hard.

“It’s gonna be okay, prima.” Chavo’s voice is low and tinged with sincerity, her eyes shutting when he kisses the top of her head. “I promise.”

—————

Solana enjoys being outside. Always has. Even during summers in the blistering Georgia heat with her paternal side of the family, beads of sweat sprouting on her forehead and in between the creases of her body, the enjoyment always outweighed the discomfort. She’s always found the outdoors to be freeing and endless. A space where so much can be noticed and dissected. That can be used for inspiration for an artist like herself.

It’s a word she uses loosely. A lover of art and someone who appreciates the talent that goes into turning nothing into something. There’s a beauty in that she was taught long ago by her mom and abuela.

Thinking of both brings a frown to her face, Solana pausing in the midst of shading. She’s set to call them a little later today, something she dreads more than anything. Hearing their voices, seeing their faces, and being able to interact with them means so much to her. Makes the days feel a little lighter, but it’s after the fact, after the call disconnects, that the loneliness returns. That it creeps up and surrounds her. Overwhelms her. Causes her mind to start racing, preventing her from sleep and usually resulting in her walking out on the balcony of her bedroom where she draws or reads. Usually the former over the latter.

Solana’s love of books has dwindled in her time at The Nightmare Manor thus far. Once, she found joy and escape. Now, it’s nothing more than reminders of a life she’ll never have and perhaps she was foolish to think she ever could have.

Her phone ringing rips her from her thoughts, her gaze falling to the device that lays screen up on the green grass that cushions her bottom. The time on said phone also alerts her to just how long she’s been sitting outside.

Too long.

Clearly, because if she’d paid more attention to time passing versus the unfinished piece in her lap, she��d have remembered he was supposed to call.

Crap.

Clearing her throat, she works quickly to push her long brunette hair over her shoulders, attempting to smooth out her edges that have already started to sweat out from the humidity.

Biting down on her bottom lip, she forces herself to shove away the anxiety, lift the phone, and press the green button that offers no turn backs.

The picture is initially blurry, gradually clearing up to reveal a set of surprisingly kind blue eyes.

And a smile to match.

He’s the first to speak. “Hey.”

She swallows, voice low and borderline whispered. “Hello.”

His background reveals very little, just the brief, faint glimpse of what she’d guess is some sort of sofa. Light brown in color, mostly obscured by the deep blue of his suit.

He likes to dress nice.

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

It’s a surprisingly thoughtful question that makes her smile just a little. “No. I….I was just drawing.”

His eyes light up with something close to recollection. “That’s right. I did hear you’re an artist.”

An ironic use of the term considering her previous reflections on just that. “Oh no, I just….I like art. That’s all.”

“Well, maybe you can teach me a thing or two, because stick figures are just about the extent of my abilities.”

Solana giggles, her anxiety gradually washing away second by second. He’s….he’s easy to talk to. “I’m sure you’re selling yourself short.”

He cracks a crooked smile. “You’re far too kind. That disappointment is sure to be something.”

The giggling transitions into full blown laughing. Cody has such a….regal demeanor about himself. Something she’s not very used to, but considering they’ve only talked a few times, and each time seems to be better, she’s almost certain it’s something she could get used to.

The same way she could get used to him.

The conversation prolongs, her smile practically stapled, the enjoyment flowing so much so that by the time she sees his eyes flit to the corner of the screen, someone gathering his attention, alerting him that he has to go, she finds herself struggling with disappointment.

It’s the first time her smile fades away.

“Solana.” There’s a shift and drift in his tone, a seriousness that hasn’t marred the conversation until now. “I recognize this arrangement is not….ideal nor is it something I can imagine you’re particularly thrilled about, but I swear to you, I will be a dutiful husband to you.” A beat. “Faithful.”

There’s an instant feeling of indecision that washes over her, that tugs on the frown on her face, deepening it. Faithfulness within marriages in this world, her world, are unicorns. Actually, she’d be more likely to find and catch a horned creature than a marriage that hasn’t been marred by some form of infidelity.

Even her parents, with all their love for one another, have fallen victim to wandering eyes.

So, while Cody’s vow seems and almost feels sincere, it’s taken with a grain of salt. Even if she does find herself moved by him even saying as such before they’ve exchanged vows.

“I have to go,” he says after she fails to offer any sort of response. “But, if it’s alright, I’d like to call you again tomorrow.”

It feels like a bit of an overkill given he’ll be back in town by the end of the week, but that doesn’t stop her from expressing agreement.

“Sure.” And something else. “I—I’d like that.”

And as the call ends, as Solana’s gaze travels Cody’s backyard, her backyard, a thought remains lingering in the back of her head.

I think I could learn to like it here.

———————

That night is the first night since arriving at her new home that Solana fell asleep with ease. That she was able to climb in bed, lay her head on the pillow, shut her eyes and peacefully drift off into a comforting slumber. Every night beforehand has been the complete opposite. Twisting and turning. Awaking with a sweat from a nightmare that felt so real. Too real.

But, tonight is different, because for the first time, the feeling of dread is gradually starting to wash away. In its wake, a sense of hope.

At least….at least, there was.

Blurry shadows that make out indistinguishable figures. A lack of understanding and consciousness. A deep, peaceful sleep disturbed by anything but. All of which make Solana struggle and take that much longer to come to grips with what’s happening.

“Solana!”

It’s the sudden alarmed yet hushed voice, the use of her name in such a distressed way that tugs her over the last hill of slumber. Frowning, she rubs at her eyes, feeling Chavo’s panicked gaze on her.

“What….what’s going on?” Because sitting up on her elbows, it’s only then she realizes her cousin is sitting on the side of her bed. His left hand is on her cheek, gentle and patient, but in the right hand is his gun, the grip on it tighter than the grip he had on Beth’s wrist not even 24hrs prior.

It’s a realization that makes Solana’s frown dip into a straight line. “What—”

The single sound, a familiar thing, one she’s certainly heard before but something no one ever wants to hear silences her.

A gunshot.

But, it’s not the only one. Dread overcomes Solana and weighs heavy on her chest, because it’s not just one gunshot that she hears. It’s several. More than several.

A barrage of gunfire.

“Come on,” Chavo moves to grab her arm, tugging her up from the mattress.

“Cousin, what’s happening?” She asks in Spanish, uncaring of the skimpy, revealing nature of her nightgown, the bonnet that covers her hair and rollers. Even the lack of shoes on her feet as he starts to drag her towards the door, never once releasing the gun in his hand.

The answer should be obvious, and on some level, she knows exactly what’s happening. The confirmation from him, however, is what she needs in order to believe it.

And, he provides just that.

“We’re under attack.”

In her less than 25 years on this earth, Solana can only recall one occasions that comes close to what’s transpiring before her. When she was seven, and some teenage boys, drunk and high, attempted to break into her house. She still recalls the way her mother pulled her out of bed, holding her close, carrying her to the closet where they sat in the back corner. The way her father went for his gun. The sound of the single warning shot that was all it took to scare the boys off.

She can still feel the press of her mother’s soft, warm lips to her temple, the caress to the back of her head.

“It’s okay, mija.”

It’s a voice she hears even now as her cousin works to usher her out the room, hand clasped tightly over hers.

“Where is the panic room?” His urgent question is more of a hushed yell, directed to a man in passing, dressed in all black, gun in hand, the patch on his chest—red, white and blue flag laid behind a white skull—all she needs to see.

Nightmare Factory.

Security.

“There is none,” is the harsh, brusque reply that sends chills down Solana’s spine.

What?

Her cousin curses. “What the fuck kind of man doesn’t have a—”

He’s silenced by the increasing and closing sounds of gunshots, Solana crying and shouting when her cousin jumps over her, the two toppling to the floor. His body completely covering hers, rapid bullets firing slamming into her senses, making her cover her ears.

“Go, go go!” His shout is accompanied by him yanking her back to her feet, motioning for her to move in the opposite direction, towards the other end of the hall where the east stair wing lies.

It’s perhaps adrenaline that kicks in and takes the front seat, because Solana would prefer nothing more than to cower and cover in the nearest safe corner. The seconds passing proceed to alert her to the weight of it all. The yells, screams, and chaos of the bedlam.

It’s like a nightmare come true.

She runs as fast as her feet allow, all instinct and survival over everything, except once more, another barrier.

She’s at the top of the steps when a loud, horrified gasp leaves her mouth. A man comes running up those same steps, a hand over his throat, blood seeping through his fingers. His face pale, eyes vacant. Death. He looks like death.

And, that’s exactly what happens. Chavo cursing behind her when a bullet comes flying and landing in the side of his head, his body dropping to the floor.

Lifeless.

“Shit!” A loud expletive as her cousin grabs her hand, suddenly tugging her in the direction where they just came, but instead of doing a complete 180, he kicks open the door of the closest bedroom, dragging her in and quickly locking it. “Get under the bed.”

Solana’s shoulders are trembling, tears brewing in her eyes, “wh—wha—”

His hands are soon on her face, gently cupping her cheeks. “Whatever you do, do not leave that spot. You stay right there.”

The tears spill over, the gravity of what’s happening never more clearer. “Primo….”

Not even the night of a break-in brought about the fear that courses through her. Similar but far from the same. This….this feels so much different.

Because it is.

A quick peck to her forehead, her eyes shutting, jaw trembling. “Te amo, prima.”

Her finger grasp at the material of his shirt, pleading with an an unopened mouth.

Please.

He holds and hugs her a bit closer and tighter before stepping back and pushing her towards the bed. “Let’s go,” he demands, helping her under the bed. It’s a tight fit, Solana being short and small in stature only, but the white ruffled bed skirt serves as a sort of curtain that shields her. The last thing she sees is the expression of her cousin who’s gone before she can say anything else, and it’s only when she hears his heavy footstep and the door shut that her whimper escapes her mouth.

Because of the tight fit, it’s impossible for her to wipe the tears from her eyes or cover her mouth to conceal the sob that begs to break through as the gunfire, shouting, and sounds of carnage only increases by the second. She scrunches her eyes shut, doing—or trying—to shut it all out. She goes to a different place, a different time. A happier time.

Her quinceanera. To this day, it remains one of her favorite memories. Despite the tension that exists between her grandparents and aunts on her dad’s side towards her maternal side, their dislike of coming to Mexico to see her, hence why she always had to go see them, they flew down to help celebrate. It was a surprise that her parents kept from her, her dad wanting to see and capture the biggest, happiest smile on her face when she turned around to see her grandma’s grinning face.

For a second, she can feel it, her grandpa’s arms around her. She can smell the scent of grandma’s favorite cologne. Elizabeth Taylor. Dated and not the easiest scent, but her granny’s go to. The music. The food. The laughter.

The joy of it all.

She’d give anything to back to it, to remain rooted forever in that time. Anything other than what’s happening.

But, that’s a fantasy. A silly, laughable thing because no one in their right mind could escape, even mentally, what comes next.

“Where you at, princess?”

Coming from beyond the room that serves as her chamber of safety, it’s a male voice, one tinged with a trace of humor. Haughty and taunting, and just like that, without even being directly identified, she knows exactly what he wants.

Her.

“You really just gon’ let us kill yo’ boy like this?”

Solana’s entire body stills, the realization settling and dawning that the gunfire has ceased, the screaming all but gone. What remains in the faint distance is sounds of grunts and low grumbling. Words she can’t make out but a voice she could identify even in a sea of others.

Chavo.

A shaky, startled gasp tumbles out when she puts two and two together. Why this man is trying to draw her out. How he’s trying to draw her out.

A loud sound of pain followed by “I guess we might as well just blow his fucking brains out. Damn, princess. That’s some kind of loyalty.”

“No,” she breathes.

A part of Solana can mentally hear Chavo frantically ordering her to stay put. To do as he said, but it’s largely and devastatingly sounded out by his groans and screams of pain. Nothing else matters in that moment than closing the distance and separation between them.

Nothing.

Climbing out from under the bed, the bottom of her feet slam against the carpet as she rushes to the door, pulling so hard on the knob she’s almost certain that it’s going to come off, flying off into the corner. However, the only thing that ends up flying is her, the speed in which her body moves down the hall to the staircase, the quickest Solana has ever moved in her entire life.

“Don’t hurt him!” She cries out, hoping and praying whoever is causing her cousin unnecessary pain will hear her, have some sort of mercy. Praying to God her giving them whatever they want, even if it’s her, will spare him.

Except, Solana is too consumed in her thoughts and prayers for mercy that she misses the moment a figure appears in front of her the minute her feet hit the cool wooden floor.

The pain that shoots through her forehead, her entire head from the impact of something steel and hard. Sends her to her ass, the small of her back colliding with the steps, evoking another hiss.

“Get up.” A new voice. Accented. Feminine? Solana can’t tell, nor does she have time to really focus, because someone has her by her upper arm. Their grip tight and unrelenting, dragging her with them towards the living room area.

Looking up, she can see the back of the person’s head, jet black hair that passes just past the shoulder. Dressed in all black, tactical items, guns, knives, and even what looks like a grenade strapped to her body. Her. Even with the tactical gear, Solana can almost bet it’s a woman.

But, once more, there’s not much time to focus on one thing when something else takes focus, and this time, it’s a sight that brings a new set of tears to her eyes.

In the middle of the floor, lies her cousin, his arms over his head, his body in an almost fetal position as he attempts to shield himself from the two men who kick and stomp into him with brutal force.

“No!”

An attempt to pull away from the woman only earns her being tugged to said woman who yanks her close enough to use her forearm as a sort of restraint. Prevents her from getting to him, only allows her to see the way he looks up, face bruised and bloodied. The way his lips move to sound out a single word. The same word she expressed.

No.

Solana cries harder, continuing to struggle against the woman. Her screams bounce through the room. “Please don’t hurt him! I’ll—I’ll do whatever you want!”

Several sets of eyes move to her, Solana recognizing there’s a number of bodies, beyond just the one restraining her and the two beating Chavo. Some standing. Some lying down in pools of blood. Corpses.

Vomit threatens to rise and escape at the sight and odor of it all, the deceased, desecrated individuals that litter the floor, staining the rug and carpet crimson red. Some of it the blood of her own flesh and blood.

Familia.

One of the men looks over at her, whistling with a wolfish smile. “Damn, what’s limp dick Cody gon’ do with all that body you got?”

“Not a damn thing.”

The other speaks, the two sharing a laugh, as Solana realizes they share the same face . Slight differences. Both with salt and pepper beards. One with his onyx hair neatly cornrowed. The other with a hairstyle that doesn’t make much sense to her, but it’s consistent, because none of what’s happened the past 15 minutes makes much sense to her.

Makes any sense.

“What….” Chavo’s weak voice drags her focus back to him, her chest tightening seeing how badly he’s hurt. Injured. In need of dire medical attention she’d bet her life no one around would be willing to provide. Not when they’re the reason and cause he needs it in the first place. “What kind of weak man can’t—can’t fight his own b—battles? Sends—sends his—m—minions.” He finishes with a heft, heavy cough of blood that makes Solana wince as she wonders what he means and why he’s not saving his strength until they get out of here.

Because they have to get out of this.

“You speak bold for a man whose life lies in my hands.”

Another voice is introduced, but it’s different. Different than the woman. Different than the two twins. It’s the kind of voice one hears and never forgets. Deep, cold, void of any emotion, yet carries a weight and reeks of autocracy. Solana frowns, watching how everyone around her straightens up. The smile on the men who found joy torturing her loved one wiped away, replaced with a straight face. She can even feel the change in posture of the woman who continues to subdue her.

Most importantly, Solana sees the way her cousin’s previously determined and defiant expression shifts into something else. Something she’s not sure she’s ever seen him emote until this very moment.

Fear.

And, it’s understandable, fully, once she lays eyes on the man that’s singlehandedly shifted the entire atmosphere and mood of the room.

Solana has always liked mythology, enjoyed the lore and nature of the gods. Found their stories riveting and fascinating, so much so that she’s often wondered what that would look like in real life. What it would be like for one of the mythology retellings she’s read about to be more than just fiction for her to consume and peruse. Curiosity and creativity having her mind conjecturing what a man in real life would look like as a god.

It’s no longer a thought.

It’s a reality.

Because only someone with some sort of deity in their lineage could command a room, steal focus, and capture breath like the one before her. He towers over everyone, some of it due to him being a few feet away, most of it being his naturally tall stature. Dressed in tactical gear, all black, similar to what adorns everyone around her, sans herself and her cousin, but his is different. His stands out more, and it’s solely due to the muscles she can only imagine lie beneath his attire. Even strapped down and ready for battle, the body of that deity bulks through. Hair pulled back into a neat, tight bun sans a few strays and fly-aways. Full lips settle into a straight line, set atop that a nose, on the larger side but fitting for his feature. Bushy brows furrowed together as he scowls, a scowl that draws attention to a scar that’s slashed across his right eye. Starting near the right side of his forehead, through the brows, over the eyelids, all the way down, stopping only centimeters from his nose. But, it’s those eyes, the warmth of the color and hue, that contrasts everything else.

Cold.

There’s no denying the frigidity that accompanies his arrival. A chill that has goosebumps forming over her entire body. In all the many people she’s met, the men she’s been around, Solana has never had this sort of experience.

And, it only intensifies when his gaze lands on her.

Something that has her own immediately dropping to her feet.

“El diablo samoano.”

At that, her cousin’s horrified voice, her head shoots up. Her eyes landing back on the man who clearly never took his off her.

A thing that barely registers or lands, much too far back on the list of things to consider at the most stunning realization. The identification of who this man is.

Chavo’s acknowledgment triggering a new set of unfathomable fear.

El Diablo Samoano.

A term she’s heard several times over the years and never in a good light. A name for a man some consider to actually be a deity, or something. Something much much darker.

A man whose kill count is rumored to be in the tens of thousands. Who’s had many go after them, all of which return in a body bag or parts.

If they return at all.

A ruthless mafia kingpin over not one but two crime syndicates. Two of the biggest in this hemisphere.

Roman Reigns.

This man is Roman Reigns.

“So, you’re the bride.”

He speaks once more, that deep baritone cutting through the silence that’s taken over but not the distress that wrecks within her. Has her body trembling with fear that’s only exacerbated as he walks towards her. Naturally, she attempts to back away only for the woman to shove her forward.

Solana braces to slam onto the floor only to collide with something harder. Firmer. Her hands planted against a chest that feels like steel, her eyes wide with shock as brown locks with brown.

Fear with nothing. Her head is craned all the way back, a necessity given the foot and some change that he has on her. And, she stares. Unable to look away. Never has she felt what’s felt being so close to this man, this myth, this thing.

“Leave her alone.” Her cousin’s pained voice calls out, as she shuts her eyes, Roman’s hand moving to her chin. Even without her vision, she can see the way he’s looking at her. Observing. Studying. Learning.

“Interesting.”

And just like that, he shoves her back to the woman who grabs Solana’s wrist, one more restraining her.

“She’s just a girl.”

Roman’s reply to her cousin is quick and simple. “She’s a woman.”

Solana watches as Chavo attempts to move to his knees, all the while issuing a relatively empty threat. “You lay—one—one fucking hand on h—her—”

Roman finally turns from her, bored gaze on her cousin. “And what will you do?”

There’s the most subtle glance between Roman and the twins that’s followed by the bottom of one of their boots slamming into her cousin’s back. His cry of pain is matched by her own as she once again attempts to break free.

“No! Please don’t hurt him!” She begs, the tears spilling over once more. Roman’s bored gaze switches back to her. “Please!” She pleads, shaking her head. “I’ll do anything—I’ll—I’ll go with you!”

Something about her offer seems to trigger his interest. Or, so she thought.

There’s an almost level of contempt in his voice and gaze, his statement directed towards her. “You say that as if you have a choice.”

“No!”

This time, Chavo’s desperate voice, Solana crying harder when another man steps forward—Caucasian, buzz cut, dull blue eyes—and kicks Chavo’s face, his jaw grotesquely shifting to the left.

“Please!” She screams, louder, harder, refusing to give up, refusing to let this happen. She can’t. She won’t. Whether through her own determination or perhaps one of those subtle nods from the man orchestrating it all, Solana is released, the woman letting her go, allowing her to move not to her cousin but to the man who holds her cousin’s life in his hands.

Before Roman, Solana drops to her feet, clinging onto his legs. “Please,” sobs, body shaking from the intensity of her anguish. “I beg—I beg you. Pl—please.” Using the minimal strength she has left, albeit paltry and waning by the second, she lifts her head, once more locking gaze with the man more monster than man.

Because only a monster would allow something like this to transpire.

Would be behind it.

Roman stares at her with that same boredom, that same indifference, that same emptiness that doesn’t make sense or feel right for another human being.

What kind of man is this?

Hopefully, one that can find it in him to be merciful, can dig deep enough to lock into whatever humanity still exists.

It’s her prayer, a final, broken, whispered “please” escaping her mouth as she leaves her request in the hands of the man, the monster, capable of fulfilling or denying.

“Kill him.”

It happens so fast, much faster than what Solana’s brain can process. One minute, she’s clinging onto Roman’s black cargo pants the same way her cousin is clinging onto his life. And, the next, he’s clinging onto nothing, because there is nothing to cling onto.

He’s dead.

A single gunshot to his head, blowing half his brains off onto the twins and nearby furniture and television.

“NO!”

Solana’s delayed reaction is followed by her rushing over to his disfigured, mutilated body. “NO!” She continues to scream, pulling him into her lap, his blood and brain matter on her clothes, on her skin, on her. “No, no, no,” she continues to wail, her tears partially obscuring the grisly scene, his battered remains. “Primo, please—wake up, wake up!”

A final desperate, heartfelt plea that falls on ears that will never hear. Eyes that will never see. A mouth that will never again speak.

A life that is no more.

Solana wails fill the room as she holds him close, rocking back and forth, stuck and frozen in her grief, a conversation around her playing out calmly and unsympathetically, partially registering, mostly lost in the throes of her grief.

“Phoenix made it out?”

“The bird bitch left the nest….I’m sure she’ll make sure the message is sent.”

“All targets eliminated?”

“Just like you ordered, Uce.”

“Seth. You know what to do then.”

The faint sound of a maniacal, deranged laugh followed by hands on her shoulders.

“No!”

Solana screams, fighting and flailing once more against the arms that drag her away from the man she never wants to leave. The man she never thought was going to leave her. The man she’ll never again see after this.

“Let me go!” It’s a last minute final, frantic effort, Solana’s stomach twisting, the vomit threatening to escape at the sight of another man, Caucasian, long, wavy, brunette hair waving as he empties some sort of liquid all over the room. Her cousin’s deceased cousin as well.

“Girl, stop all that noise.” A feminine voice, different than the other woman who was initially restraining her. Solana is uncaring to see who it is, just noticing a deep brown hand grabbing her, dragging her away from a scene she can’t turn away from. Can’t stop reliving. Can’t stop replaying. The begging. The order.

The death.

A haze comes over her, the trauma of it all rendering her nearly mute. Her mind separate from her body. A dissociation that spares her from the gravity settling down and deep. The reality that in a world of those who take and ask, Roman Reigns is a man who takes.

And, he’s just taken her.

But, beyond that, beyond the unimaginable and unspeakable horrors that transpired before her, a part of her story and life that will never be forgotten and always imprinted in one way or another, something else.

A decision made in that same moment she’s dragged away, her heart fractured and shattered in irreparable ways. One that will only settle once the disconnect between her mind and body ceases. A determination, vow, promise made to herself.

Roman Reigns is a man who takes, and after this, she will be a woman who takes, because no matter what it takes, no matter what she has to do, one truth remains, written in the book of future of what’s to come.

What she's going to take.

Because Roman has now done the unforgivable. Taken something that she can never get back. A life that can never be restored.

It's only fair that she returns the favor.

That the first thing she takes is him.

His life.

Solana Miller is going to kill Roman Reigns.

#trippinsorrows #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns fic #roman reigns fanfic #Solana Miller x Roman Reigns

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thekittysmeow · 9 days ago

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Laalaaaaaaaa 😮‍💨

I couldn’t take my eyes off this one!! This chapter felt like a show that was on HBO, that we had NO BUSINESS watching! And the scream I scrumpted when she thought about that man 😫😂

Pleaseeee tag me in the next episode!!

𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 | 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐰𝐨.

warnings. profanity. themes of violence & murder. guns. themes surrounding drug distribution & dealing. angst. grief. use of the “n” word. smut.

word count. 6.6k

Red.

So dark it was almost black.

The impact from the blow that close—it was impossible for it not to get on her. Tiny droplets like it had rained. On her face. In her hair. On her hands.

She was fine at first. When she actually did it. Finger pressed on the trigger. Watching his six foot three frame collapse. Her hand still lingering about for so long, her muscles went sore. Until Tío Ricky’s blurry existence held his strong hand atop of hers. Cautious as he lowered her hand—guiding it down—sliding the steel out simultaneously.

In her peripheral, someone—she couldn't tell who—checking his pulse. They said something. She might as well had been underwater. And just as Ricky guided her out and into the hallway she saw them—a group—folding the bubble wrap over him.

The whole way she was fine. On autopilot. Like someone else had taken the wheel and was driving her. Possessed. Had to be. She couldn’t do what she had just done as just Yamille.

Because Yamille loved Shy. Yamille’s heart beat a little differently in his presence. Even half-way covered in ice chips—an effect of every night mirroring events like tonight, where she held a gun in her hand, making impossible decisions. The temperature of the organ responsible for giving her life lowered longed ago. But him—Shiloh Neverson��he had assumed the role of holding it in the warmth of his hands whenever he saw it getting too close to freezing point.

As a brother. As a friend. As a possible lover.

Her eyes burned hearing his deep chuckle echo in her ears. Every smile meant for her. The right dimple always winking at her. The sea of waves that sat on his head and shone at every angle when it caught the light. His full lips and how the right words always came out of them. The Lealtad inked on his skin that she sat for two hours watching him get.

It just didn’t make sense to her. Shy was the poster child for loyalty. It fueled him. It ran through his veins like the blood on her hands. How someone so once dedicated to the idea of family and binding themselves to something they believed in more than god—could not only take from that something, but look it in the face and lie.

She’d rather anger consume her because grief is selfish. Needy. Wanting everything all to herself. There was no room for any other emotion when she came around. And that bitch grief came in full force. The very second the autopilot button cleared—grief forced herself on her.

Her eyes—they burned and burned—like they were under the heat of a flame. Finally it fell—a single tear. So heavy it bypassed her face and dropped straight into the porcelain sink bowl. His blood—once a crimson red—now a fusion of blush due to the running water.

Her hands began to shake like she had tremors. The water was washing the red away. She didn’t know why but the more it went, the more grief pushed down on her shoulders. Like the blood was the last piece of him. She wasn’t ready to let go.

Ricky was quick and sufficient. As careful as he possibly could be. A task he never imagined he’d have to carry out. Tonight would be infinitely remembered as a first for everybody.

He took over. Scrubbing the blood off her hands with the harsh antibacterial soap. He scrubbed and scrubbed. Rinse and repeat. Scrubbing and letting the water take the remnants of Shy down under. Together their hands were wrinkled and raw. The sleeves of his button up, even rolled to his elbows, were soaked. He moved with such persistence he broke a sweat.

Yaya’s eyes hadn’t moved from their fixation on the drain. Even when he pushed the command of, “clothes—off.”

His instructions and the shower as the water beat down on the floor sounded like a distant memory. She was paralyzed in place. The blood. It was gone. Only the lightest pink streaks remained in the bowl.

Wearily, she found the will to flip her shaking palms face up. She could still feel the weight of his blood even though her hands were clean as a whistle. Not a single of trace of him left. But that’s not what she wanted. If she could, she’d keep it there until it crusted and faded away. It was the last piece of him that she had left.

“—Mija.” She almost forgot he was even there. His thick hands caught her face by the chin, causing wrinkles to form where he pressed into the meat of her cheeks. They both stood, glossy and wide, sage eyes trained on each other. “You hear that?” He pushed. And the moment he said it, she finally did. The heartbeat of the club. They had opened the doors. The bass from some upbeat track—Drake or PARTYNEXTDOOR, maybe—she couldn’t tell. Her mind had abandoned her and decided to reside right in that room where she took Shiloh’s life. “Snap out of it,” he hissed. Only nodding when she did.

With all her strength, she pulled herself—or what was left of her—out of the darkest cell of her mind.

There was no time for that. Mourning. The show must go on.

Life stopped for nothing and no one. The blessing and the curse.

“You think you the man?” His words played back in her head. She breathed deep, discarding her clothes. Hell yeah, she said to herself.

She had to be.

Two floors above, on the highest level of the Viper’s Den, Jefe moved with vigor. His son just a few paces behind him—flanked with armed soldiers in suits allergic to wrinkles—the heels of their premium dress shoes clicked on impact to the floor.

The complete opposite of his sister—coming down from the high off grief and morphing into autopilot. Jaw locked and eyes concentrating on the floor with every step. One foot in front of the other, he tried to keep up. Tried to think of anything else. Obsessed with the rhythm of everyone’s dress shoes clicking with every step.

Before he was thrusted through two of their men, an unforgiving amount of weight pressing against his chest, until his back met the wall with so much force, he thought he’d go through it. He was so out of it. Dissociating so much, that he didn’t even realize he was in danger until it was too late.

His father’s forearm, pinning him to the wall in the low lit hall, as if he were a piece of art meant to hang there. Jefe’s eyes were always heavy and demanding. Fierce and overwhelming. Tonight, Yamir saw the green flames burning like wildfire in them.

“The next time you deny a direct order—” Jefe applied more pressure against his son’s chest. Something between a groan and a wince escaping him against his will. Trying his best to swallow the pain—trying to remain numb. “You’ll be standing next to whoever is on the other side of my gun. Am I clear?”

Anyone else would’ve had their tongue cut straight from their throat, had they ever used it to threaten his only son. But Rafael Figueroa wasn’t anyone. Even back when he was down on his dick—nameless and pinching for pennies, getting his own hands dirty and washing them to come home and cook for a young Yamille and Yamir—even then, he was far from just anyone.

As much as he wanted to acknowledge the body of men who had stopped with them—he couldn’t. His father’s stare like cuffs, locking him in place. His eyes felt heavy with grief and shame. But he knew the price for that. So, he didn’t dare let a drop fall. He breathed in deep from his nose instead.

“Crystal.”

He held him for just a minute longer. Looking between the two eyes like he was looking in the mirror—only, he wasn’t. His son was the complete opposite of him. He beat it into his head with force and fire since he was a pre-teen, that this life was the only one that mattered. That the road he was paving had his name on it. Everyday Jefe peeled his eyes open, he prayed to whatever deity got him this far—that it’d stick.

He could see his son’s face twitching in pain. More than just physical. But, Jefe hadn’t been that kind of father for a few years now. In his hands—coddled and borderline spoiled—is where Yamir had rested long enough. He didn’t know what it was to struggle. He hadn’t felt real pain yet. Didn’t have a clue what it meant to truly be hungry—starving. Yamir—no matter how hard he looked to the eye—had been raised with something mimicking love. He wasn’t anywhere near ready to sit at a table or go against the men who had been raised on survival. Like a lion to an antelope in the jungle—they’d prey on him and then eat him alive.

If what happened tonight wasn’t a testament to how not ready and unfit Yamir was—there was nothing else that could open Rafael’s eye’s wider to the hard to digest reality.

With almost just as much force as he had initially used to push him—he released him. Roughly gripping the lapels of his suit jacket as if they had done something to him, and straightening them back in place to dissolve any evidence of the rough hit from his initial attack. He smoothed and corrected him back to the near perfect shape as he was before. At least physically. His mental was a whole different animal. And Jefe didn’t have the capacity to tailor his emotions. No one had done such for him. He couldn’t give what his hands hadn’t possessed. He was just a man—not a magician.

He placed a hand on the back of his son’s neck. His sage eyes softer than they had been all night. The only gesture of that looked or even smelled like love, that Yamir would receive from him tonight.

The small act was monumental for someone like Rafael Figueroa.

But for his son—Yamir Figueroa—it would never be enough.

Without another word, he released his grip and continued his pursuit down the hall. Flashes of the growing celebration down below as they passed the narrow placements of floor to ceiling windows that gave scarce view of the main club level. Beams of red and blue neon lights burned the side of their faces. The sea of pedestrians—ready to drown in premium alcohol, recreational narcotics, dance their pain away, and hopefully leave with the partner of their dreams for just a night—oblivious to the acts that ensued before their arrival. Money being thrown and falling a top of them like confetti. Unaware of the billion dollar, binding deal—sealed with Shy’s blood—taking place just a level above their heads.

“I apologize for the wait gentlemen.” Jefe offered to the room. Already full with men—tan in skin, thick in hair with stories of pacific war on them, covered in inked armor. Men whose last name held weight and ignited fear like an ancient myth, just as the Figueroa’s.

Undoing the single button to his suit, he took his seat at the opposite head. His soldiers lining the walls. His son next to him, sunken shoulders weighed down by grief—not his usual vibrant and arrogant demeanor.

The shift in energy was not at all missed. The man that sat at the other head who had been waiting fifteen minutes past their agreed time—regardless of how emotionally distant he had altered himself to be, was as emotionally intelligent as they come. He could smell it on Yamir—the grief. The shame. His regret.

Knocking twice on the Blackwood table before them, he ignored Jefe’s hospitality—too emerged in Yamir’s energy.

The bass from the floor below was alive enough to reach them. Still the silence swallowed the room whole. Reign’s dark eyes never leaving Yamir, whose gaze was trained down.

“I take it our little issue has been resolved?” Reign probed. Anticipating Yamir’s answer. But tonight, he didn’t have any.

“It’s been handled.” Jefe assured.

The room went deaf again. Reign’s eyes studying the severe bouncing of Yamir’s leg as if it was a bomb ticking down the seconds until explosion.

The silence was a knife threatening to sever the last thread of Yamir’s sanity. Grief in quiet—stillness—was a recipe for destruction. Grief flourished in the dark rooms of idle hands. The quieter the mind the louder the memories.

He swears he could hear Shy’s mischievous chuckle before he would utter, “nigga pull ‘ya skirt down and snap out of it.”

Reign landed two forearms—attached to two biceps larger than life—on the table. Peering over his shoulder at his right-hand and blood cousin—Jey Fatu—gauging if his eyes could see what his did.

“Business can resume like usual, then. Jimmy will be waiting for Yamir at the drop spot as discussed. With more product of course.”

“We’ll need more than the three hundred originally discussed.”

Snatching his eyes from Yamir for the first time, they bounced to Rafael’s. His eyebrows turning up in somewhat amusement.

“No disrespect, Jefe, but you all just lost the first two hundred given as a demo. A courtesy considering it was discounted. And now you’re asking for more?”

“It wasn’t lost it was stolen,” Rafael corrected. The bitter story of his chosen son’s betrayal still leaving a bad taste in his mouth. “We’re making up for the gap in profit. Your money will be on its way to you, as soon as we leave this meeting. That’s the only part that should matter. What we lost, is irrelevant.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Your losses are our losses now—” Reign held a strong finger up. A red light to his cousin’s sudden outburst.

“You’ll get your five. I’ll even keep the discounted price on the table.” Reign’s eyes wandered back to the only closed mouth. “You’re so confident your problems have been solved. You can handle five hundred keys? Is that right…Yayo?”

Determined to pull the boy out of his madness—he put the spotlight on him.

Reign initially despised Yamir. He was entitled, sheltered and arrogant as fuck their first time meeting in this very room just a month ago. Now, he sat in the same spot, touched by something. Humbled even. Reign recognized the heaviness in his heart. There was no weight greater than that of expectation. He could see him clearly now. The man he met before was wearing the mask. He had since threw it away or it had been ripped off of him. Underneath, just another boy whose original pursuits in life had been taken. In their place was responsibility—obligations he never asked for. An entire kingdom at his feet.

Reign knew the melody to that sad song all too well.

Yamir shifted in his seat. Fingers going so stiff he had to ball them up to feel them again.

“Yeah, man.”

The ridges of his jawline danced as he fought the internal battle vigilantly. He could feel Rafael watching. He always was.

Reign poked his bottom lip out, somewhat satisfied. “Five it is, then.” He sighed, looking to his right to see if Jey had any last words. They gave one another a nod and stood as the other two men followed suit.

They all shook hands the way men do. Sealing the deal.

Reign and Jey filed out the room, not at all intimidated by the armed men lining the hallway that didn’t belong to them. But, they weren’t alone. Yamille had just made her way up. Mind still fighting to return back to the horrid scene from earlier. She didn’t even notice Reign’s overpowering frame making slow steps to where she stood with her back against the wall.

But he had a presence that couldn’t go unnoticed. He wasn’t the elephant in the room—he was the lion in it.

Face to face with the dent of his collarbones peaking through his black button-up shirt, she stood unmoved. A smirk dancing behind his own mouth watching her struggle to not look up. He could smell it on her too. Grief.

He didn’t know what transpired as he was waiting for them. Had no clue all the hurdles and long nights it took to “handle it,” as Jefe relayed. Whatever it was, it had shaken this small family up.

Still, he refused to leave until she acknowledged him.

The pair had done this dance a few times before. This cat and mouse game. Reign was only playing the game, as a courtesy. Games—he did not play. Especially with women. This was new territory for him. He always got what he wanted. No fight. No games. And they only crossed his path but once.

He’d play her game—for now. Only because he knew in his heart she was one of none. And he would never play a game he didn’t think he could win.

He slid his hands into the pockets of his dress pants. Patient as they come.

Her eyes—a color he had never seen before, and didn’t even know could be replicated in a human—snatched his soul from the first moment they landed on him. Every time after. And this time was no different. The single thing, that separated this instance from the others, was the distance in them. He could sense she wasn’t there. This wasn’t a part of their game.

It was as if somebody set him ablaze. Tingles he didn’t think he could get in the presence of a woman that wasn’t even touching him—he could feel them all over his body. Damn, he thought. Even her pain was enamoring.

She broke their trance. Snatching her gaze from him to Tío Ricky, as he passed them both to make his way into the room the two men dispersed from. Pushing off the wall, he brushed her soft body against his hard one, to follow her uncle. Shutting the door behind herself and finally breathing again.

It took a hell of a lot to take a woman like Yamille Figueroa’s breath away. Reign Fatu had done so effortlessly. Even on a night like tonight, where her heart was so heavy it weighed her aura down.

They didn’t know each other. Only heard the tall tales told about one another. The rest was up for interpretation. Imagination.

That’s the part they enjoyed the most. The hearing but not knowing.

Her hearing about his merciless acts to sustain his position. Him hearing about her being the force that drives the entire Figueroa dynasty, with balls bigger than her brother could ever have. Still, just stories.

The rumors of her ability to lure men to their deaths if need be. Using everything she was given to get what she wanted—to get into spaces she didn’t belong. He heard them all—and the sickest part of him liked it. A smirk planted on his handsome face his whole walk down the hall, as he took his first breath too.

They were in the thick of it now. The deal was made. There was no way to get rid of him. The game would have to go on.

“I called Blanca already,” she announced to the room of men. “She’s already at his apartment.” Not able to speak his name just yet, her words were scarce. There wasn’t much she could say that didn’t make her throat tingle with the threat of bile.

“A runaway?” Her father asked.

She nodded.

And when no one else spoke, and the silence became too loud—pictures of his silhouette dropping before her—she turned on her heels.

“You’re leaving?” Her brother’s voice was hard as steel. The pain in the simple question made her stop dead in her tracks. He knew her. Some days it felt like they might be one. So, he knew she needed some type of release. She wouldn’t find it there, at The Viper’s Den. Alcohol wasn’t her thing. Never was into drugs—recreational or not. And she didn’t care for the herd of titties and ass she managed downstairs. “Tonight of all nights?”

“Especially tonight.”

His cufflinks shone under the weight of the lights belonging to the city on the rooftop. Like they were brand new, because they were. Same as his Tom Ford dress shoes. Even the simplest pieces of his fit—down to the undershirt and the crisp button up—had a name to them. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Every man that crossed his path shook his hand or gave him a nod of acknowledgement. Every woman did a double take. He didn’t pay a single one any more than a millisecond of attention. The one he wanted had already announced she’d be there. But that was almost a half hour ago.

He checked the time on his two toned AP for the umpteenth time. The waitress came by again. Offering him another chance to order a wine he couldn’t pronounce before filling his glass with more water. He declined. Wine wasn’t her thing. And so, it wasn’t his.

The city was just waking up. At the eleventh hour until they spilled into the next day and the clock struck twelve.

They sat him at their usual table. Right by the glass railing of the rooftop, where you could see everything.

Another fifteen minutes came and went. Checking his phone to see nothing from her. He didn’t have the heart to get up. She didn’t call much these days. So, when she did—he came. No questions asked. He’d drop whatever he was doing—and whoever he was doing it with. Just for a night with her.

He heard the fierceness of her stride before she even came into view. It was from behind where the stairs were. Her walk held a certain doom to it. It had a rhythm he memorized. Her hand came over the muscle of his shoulder before she rounded the table.

“Don’t touch that,” he commanded. His chair moaning against the stone textured floor. Hers making the same sound as he pulled it out. “You’re late.”

“I’m never late,” she corrected. A smirk on her full glossy lips. A mask. “Everyone else is just early.” She placed her forearms on the table, leaning into them slightly. The wind whispered and it hit her perfectly. Fucking perfect, he thought. “I thought you would’ve ordered by now.” She grabbed the glass of water that belonged to him, while tucking a piece of her jet black, blown out hair behind her ear, after the wind had led it astray.

“Not really hungry. I already ate.”

Fighting the subtle smile on his face was pointless. Especially when hers was coming to a head.

“You could’ve told me, no.”

He shook his head. No, I couldn’t have, he thought. “You can still eat.”

“I’m not really hungry either,” she confessed. She had no appetite. Wouldn’t be able to keep anything down, anyhow. She scanned the rooftop, somewhat content with seeing the regulars. Mostly white women with their white collar husbands. The small clusters of the younger crowd, that were either a product of nepotism, or were lucky enough to had conjured wealth, cutting through generational curses. Breaking the wheel. The waiters moved swiftly and quietly, as she honed in on the hum of chatter and the clinking of glasses.

This wasn’t the kind of restaurant the young and restless frequented. The couple seated at the balcony, were the sore thumbs there, every time they came.

“How was work?” She asked when her eyes made their way to his again.

“You don’t care about that.”

She let out the softest laugh. At the same time the waitress from earlier—who had no resistance in giving him flirty eyes and switching just a little too hard when walking away from him—now avoided him at all cost—filling her glass with ice water.

“Miss Figueroa, will you be having your regular?” She probed.

Yamille didn’t even look her way before answering, “no.”

Something he had seen before crowning in her eyes. A look he knew all too well. “She’s ready for desert.”

His passion infused with her pain, thrusted the weight of them both into his Biscayne condo. The door had barely been cracked open when he picked her up, her long toned legs wrapping around his torso, as the battle for dominance began. Sloppy and relentless, they feasted on each other.

So submerged in her, one track minded, he couldn’t care less if he closed the door behind them. So, it stayed wide open. He just needed to get to the bed. Any surface would do.

It was dark just as he left it. The balcony on his first floor casted the smallest glow on their brown bodies.

Eyes barely open, mouth full of her tongue, he used his imagination and memory to get them to his King bed up the floating steps. Their heavy breaths and his footsteps the only thing to be recognized in the darkness.

It was when he felt his thigh hit the edge of the bed, that he regrettably threw her on it. She tasted so sweet on his lips. Always. The last thing he wanted to do was let her go. But the stiffness of his dick pressing against his slacks was almost painful. He needed her.

And she was aching for it. Pussy hot and pulsing around nothing. Desperate for something. She nearly moaned at the feel of her stiff nipples sliding against the lace fabric of her jumpsuit. Back already arching off the mattress. Watching him. Like the feline she was.

He was insufferable. Taking his time. Thick tongue swiping across him full bottom lip. Hungry for it. He hadn’t had it in a month. He’d never admit to her that he starved for it. Nothing else tasted quite the same.

The air was smoldering. Thick with desire.

He reached for his belt, pulling it from the loop, never taking his eyes off hers. The thick bulge just beneath it, is what grabbed her concentration and she couldn’t contain herself after that.

Yanking the collar of his dress shirt, she pulled him down until he took her place on the bed. She relieved herself of the lace material, not caring if it snagged or tore, leaving her in absolutely nothing. Double D’s moving with her. Climbing on top of him, to finish the job he was taking too long to complete. It was torture. Like hanging a steak in front the cage of a monster that hadn’t ate in days.

His breath of amusement at her impatience was cut short at the feel of his head sliding into that cave he always lost his mind in. Dripping, scorching hot and tight as ever. No warm up. She was warm enough the minute she saw his figure from behind at the restaurant. His fingers dug into the skin of her ass, as they hissed in unison at the feeling they both had been craving.

“God damn,” he huffed once she got it all the way in. Impatient as fuck. She hadn’t even fully finished the job he started. Only unbuckled the designer belt and pulled him through the hole.

She stayed there for a while. Kiss swollen lips slightly parted, feeling all of him and taking none of it for granted.

Then she started. Her waist and hips whining at a pace so slow—it felt too good and didn’t feel good enough. That tightening sitting at the rim of their cores made it wrenching, but they couldn’t rush this. Yeah, they had all night—but when all you have is the long night, it feels like a mere minute.

The acrylics of her nails dragged against his smooth skin. From his pelvis that housed veins as thick as the ones on his shaft, then up the dress shirt he still had on. She did the honor of yanking it apart, making buttons fly and drop on the bed around them. The ridges and valleys of his abdomen exciting her. Turning her on and making the place where they connected, catch even more heat as she sped up. Whining in a deeper line, rolling her hips at sharper angles.

The sight of her—all woman, skin smooth as peanut butter with lines and curves everywhere he liked it—was enough to make him bust on command. The muscles of her core tightening and the jiggle of her breast with every movement against his firm body was like a scene from a movie. Straight cinema. It was as if she was making love to herself and he just so happened to be there.

All with his door still wide open downstairs. And at that realization he had the urge to put on a show for anyone who might hear. His strong hands found a spot on her soft skin where he could control her, as he drove up and dragged her up and down on his thickness.

“Ughnn!” The silkiness of her thick hair cascaded down her back as she let her head roll. Her eyes followed suit and her mouth was stuck wide open. He was hitting that spot dead-on that made her feel a tingle everywhere. “Fuck!” She panted. “Fuck me—fuck me—fuck me.”

She was leaking. The material of his pants were soaked with traces of her. So potent, the smell made his mouth water and his dick grow stiffer inside of her.

Moans growing louder as his strokes grew more feral. The slapping of their skins was ferocious.

“You look so fucking good, Ya,” he strained. “Pretty ass fucking titties.”

He grabbed them to feel the plushness under his palms, thumbing over the hard peaks. They distracted him from driving the show as his hips came to a stop, prompting her to continue rocking against him to her own rhythm.

A wicked grin she contained with a bite to her bottom lip, had him laughing to himself. He was drunk on her. Fascinated with her power and femininity. She lived for the thrill—danger, power and fucking.

Her dainty hands covered his as they gripped her breast. Bouncing up and down on him, not caring much for savoriness anymore. She just wanted what she came here for.

“Come on,” he pushed. Recognizing the curve of her brow and the vein pulsing on her forehead. He knew she was close. He knew her body like a preacher knows the word of god. He could feel the squeeze of her muscles tightening around his shaft—still, the flood making it easier to slide in and out. “Come on, mami,” he nearly begged. “Make a fucking mess. Come on,” he said fiercely through clenched teeth.

Her gaze shot up to the ceiling once more. She closed her eyes, but the darkness was susceptible to images of him. The gloss in his eyes as her finger grazed the cold trigger. Her eyes shot open just before another image of Reign’s smirk flashed.

A sound mixed with pain and pleasure erupted from her as her body shook against him. It all hit her in overpowering waves—stealing all her senses. He guided her through it. Hips grinding up, a slave to the pressure.

“You okay?” He whispered. She didn’t answer. It’s like she was hypnotized by something. “Yamille.” He caught her chin in his hand forcing her to make eye contact with him.

She blinked a few times before shaking his hand away. Easing up off of him and immediately feeling the void. She crawled next to him, positioning herself so that her perky ass sat high up in the air for him. She knew it was his favorite.

Trying not to dwell on where she went a few seconds ago, he pushed himself up and off the bed. Stepping out of his soaked pants and rolling the dress shirt off his arms and back to reveal even more muscle. She watched the show from where she laid her head, still in position.

He disappeared behind her. She bit her lip anticipating the bed dipping, but all she got was the yank of her ankle until she was on the edge, with her legs hanging off. His hand gripped her hips, leaving a small space between her pelvis and the soft mattress—pulling her up just enough to get a peak at her glistening folds.

He groaned at the sight. Jaw working as he fought the urge to not taste it. He ran a hand up the dent of her back, mesmerized not just by the lines of her body, but the lines of the ink branded on her. A serpent—with intricate black scales drawn with the finest of ink—from the base of her neck, down the length of her back, stopping right at the top of her left ass cheek.

Giovanni’s line of work made him familiar with the mark of the Figueroa Dynasty. Striking and sly—they were. Not to be fucked with. A clear sign of danger that he took no heed to.

Instead he worshipped it. Even pressed soft kisses to it while grabbing himself in hand. Lining up—sliding through the wetness and teasing first with his lips still pressed to her damp back. Soliciting a whimper every slide past her turgid clit. Her hands gripped the sheets losing control as her hips shifted to feel it more.

He allowed his teeth to sink into the skin of her back at the same time he pushed all the way into the softest place on earth.

They went at it all night like rabid animals. She came twice and was already halfway to her destination of chasing that feeling—that high, for a third time. Two, let alone one, just wasn’t enough. Not for a girl like Yamille. It was never enough.

She reached out to him with this exact expedition in mind. The first in a month, that she had seen his heart-throbbing face and she could only focus on one thing. Getting hers. She wanted—no needed him to fuck her until she came so hard—so long—so intense, that she couldn’t think straight. Until she forgot.

“Say my name,” he urged. She had no fight back, but she couldn’t comply either. Her voice had been captured by the feel him snapping into her. All she could manage to get out was a clipped rush of breath. “Say it,” he warned.

“Ugh!—fuck! Gio,” she gasped. “Ay, qué rico, papi.”

“Mmhm,” he agreed. “Good fucking girl,” he chuckled to himself. Even the most powerful women were a mess in his domain. Giovanni Blackwell was a force. Black, educated, ambitious, and sitting on a hell of a lot of money to show for it. A lot of men didn’t make it here. He did, by any means necessary.

The bachelor of all bachelors. He had a face you didn’t ignore. Much like the woman under him. Skin bronze with the body of a greek god, that even the most expensive designer suits couldn’t conceal. He lived his entire life with style and didn’t settle for anything but the best.

A hot commodity. His money came with access. That, combined with his attractive aura, and the sway of his walk that let you he was packing something heavy, was enough to make the most brilliant woman turn stupid. It was a game he had grown tired of playing because he always won. He didn’t want any of them. None of them made him feel like the one in his bed tonight.

It was that tired instance that plagued most men at one point or another in their lifetime. He wanted her because he couldn’t have her. Yamille Figueroa wasn’t a woman to be had. She was an idea. A fantasy. A statue in the grand halls of some historic museum. A myth you told men to make them their sharpest self, thinking one day they could domesticate someone like her.

He had never met someone—let alone a woman like her before in his life. She had him in a chokehold that she hadn’t even intended to put him in. But he stayed confined in all that is her, willingly. Even knowing they were stunted. They could only reach a certain height because that’s how she orchestrated it to be.

As he lay—hot body tangled in his cool sheets—eyes fluttering open to watch her watch the view—he couldn’t help but to be grateful. Trying to roam his mind and pin-point the moment he got so lucky to even just have this. A long night.

Yamille hadn’t slept at all. She didn’t like the things her mind was doing in the idle darkness. The silence. The space to think.

It was easier to stare out the window of his condo—where the lights shone and there was life at every turn—and imagine the scenario of every car driving by or every dot that resembled a person. She played a game in her head, guessing who they were and where they were on their way to or coming from. A chef leaving his first big gig at a Michelin Star restaurant. A girl who works in corporate and never has time to curate a stable love life, leaving her first successful date in months. She kept going and didn’t stop. It was something she did since she was younger. Other people’s lives always seemed easier. More digestible. Normal.

She wished she could stay there. In bed. In his condo where she didn’t have to watch her back. Where she wasn’t forced to take every encounter as a possible threat to her safety. Where brutality was foreign to her. Where she didn’t have to be strong and always hold her own weight.

Out there—outside—she was somebody completely different. A girl he wouldn’t even recognize. With him, she could pretend. She could be soft. She could let go. She could just be.

She mourned for the girl she never got to be.

Her lips curved into the softest smile at the feeling of his fingers in her hair until he yanked gently. She craned her neck the opposite way to see his chiseled features in the dark. His hand, larger than her entire face, smoothly made a trail to cup the side of it.

He looked at her like she was the grandest gift he had ever been given. And she knew that couldn’t have been true, for gifts are meant to be kept. Staring back into his brown orbs, she pressed the side of her face into his hand. Playing into it. Just for the night. Because she knew when the sun rose again, she’d have to be someone else. Herself.

“Don’t leave without waking me up,” he demanded in that sleepy voice. Making her have to push away the idea of climbing on top of his hard body again.

They were from two different worlds that orbited dangerously close to one another. The kind of man her father probably wished for her. Used to beg her to pursue. Even if Yamille was the kind of girl to value love and intimacy—it couldn’t be something she shared with Gio. Their worlds clashed. She knew he loved what he did and as did she. They agreed upon that much. And it was enough for them to never see daylight together.

“I won’t,” she lied.

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