Page 7 of Disciplined: His Forbidden Crush

He recalled one hot day, much like this one. Rafael had been working on his motorcycle in the courtyard of the compound. Verano had come wandering over, trying to look casual but failing miserably.

“Hey Rafael,” he’d said.

Rafael had looked at him and thought that he looked nervous. “What’s up, Veranito?”

“Could you teach me how to ride sometime?” Verano had seemed embarrassed. Rafael recognized it for what it was, the kind of hero worship a young man felt in the presence of the kind of man he wanted to be.

Rafael had told him his father would not approve, but Verano had insisted.

“I can handle it! Come on, Rafael, please? You’re the coolest guy I know. There’s no one else I’d rather learn from.”

Perhaps it had been the appeal to his ego, but Rafael had relented. “Fine. But if your pap finds out, you’re on your own, got it?”

The way his face had lit up. Garcia had found out, but he had been indulgent, pleased that Verano had wanted to do something so rough-and-tumble. He’d always been a fay, fragile kid, all eyes and questions and shy smiles.

Standing in the shadows of an L.A. alleyway, those memories felt like a lifetime ago. That tender, trusting youth was gone, replaced by a wild, unpredictable man who had turned his back on his family and everything they stood for. Garcia had made it clear: Verano needed to be brought back in line, and Rafael was the one to do it.

Can’t just walk up and ask him nicely, can I? His jaw clenched at the thought. He knew what needed to be done. He had to assert his dominance over Verano, make him submit to his will, as he’d done with countless others before. But something inside him ached at the prospect. The boy he’d known, the one who’d looked at him with such admiration and trust, didn’t deserve such harsh treatment.

It had to be done. He grunted to himself, shaking off the momentary hesitation. This is for your own good, Veranito.

He stepped out of the alleyway, squinting against the bright afternoon sun. The apartment building loomed before him, its façade weathered and faded. He compared it to the house Verano had grown up in. This place was a far cry from Garcia’s mansion. Rafael wondered what Verano was doing for money these days. Would he turn to crime? Did he know anything else?

The hot summer afternoon pressed down on him, beads of sweat prickling at the nape of his neck. A cool breeze whispered through the air, stirring memories of prison and the stifling confinement he’d endured.

Across the street, a café awning offered respite from the heat. Rafael decided it would be the perfect spot to scope out the building while enjoying a cup of coffee—they had Colombian beans, the irony of which brought a wicked smirk to his lips.

Of course, once he had his dark brew and took a cautious sip, he winced at the bitter, burnt taste assaulting his tongue. They over-roasted the beans. Typical.

“Fucking gringos,” he muttered under his breath, grabbing a sugar packet and emptying it into the cup.

Settling into a seat by the window, Rafael continued to study the apartment building, taking note of every entrance and exit, every balcony and window. His mind turned over possible scenarios and strategies for getting to Verano, but discarded most of them as over-complicated.

No, he’d simply walk in and lie in wait. Basking in the freedom that the hot summer day offered, he watched people come and go from the apartment building, noting how casual and trusting they seemed.

Finishing his coffee with a sigh, Rafael pushed himself up from the seat and crossed the road towards the apartment building. The sun’s rays glared off the windows, casting a golden sheen on the pavement. A Latino man struggled to carry an awkward-looking box towards the entrance, and Rafael saw his opportunity.

“Hey, amigo,” he called out, sauntering over. “Need a hand?”

“Thanks,” the man grunted, relief washing over his face as Rafael took some of the weight.

Together, they maneuvered past the security door. Rafael smirked at how easy it was to gain entry. Once inside, he helped the guy get his box to the second floor, before heading up to the third floor alone.

Standing in front of what he hoped was Verano’s apartment door, Rafael retrieved a set of lock picks from his pocket. He worked swiftly, feeling the pins click into place one by one, and frowned when the door swung open with barely any resistance.

Too fucking easy, he thought, stepping into the apartment. Veranito, you should know better.

Again, he was struck by the difference between this place and Verano’s childhood home. The rooms were smaller, the furniture simpler, but there was an undeniable charm to the space. Sunlight streamed through the large windows, bathing the living room in warm, golden hues. The balcony offered a view of the bustling city below, the sound of it very different to the quiet of the countryside where Verano had spent his childhood.

Rafael wandered through the apartment, absorbing the details—a cheap throw rug, an unimpressive television, a collection of books and knickknacks that gave the place a personal touch. It was clear that Verano had been making a life for himself here, away from the cartel and his family’s control.

“Must be nice to pretend you’re just a normal kid, huh?” Rafael mused aloud, unsure how that made him feel.

Despite the obvious differences, he couldn’t shake the feeling of familiarity that hung in the air. Sure, it was a far cry from the world they’d both known, but there were still echoes of the boy Rafael remembered. He could imagine Verano here, in this place, making this life.

He explored the apartment, his eyes scanning for details that would confirm this was Verano’s sanctuary. A soft, elegant garment draped over the back of a plush chair caught his attention. It was a muted, pastel green, and the fabric felt expensive to the touch. He let his fingers linger on it for a moment before moving on. The furnishings all shared a similar aesthetic—soft hues and gentle curves, calming and comforting.

The sweet scent of incense and bright notes of citrus hung in the air. A bowl of fruit sat on the kitchen counter, the once plump and vibrant produce starting to wrinkle. With a frown, he opened the fridge, only to find it nearly empty, save for a few condiments and a lonely carton of milk. Disgust twisted his features as he chastised Verano in his mind for not taking better care of himself.

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