Page 8 of Disciplined: His Forbidden Crush

Living like a goddamn bachelor, he thought, slamming the fridge door shut.

He stepped into Verano’s bedroom, his boots sinking into the plush carpet. The room was awash in soft light filtering through sheer curtains, casting a warm glow on every surface. It felt luxurious and inviting, so different from the stark, cold cell he’d called home for the last five years.

Glancing into the bathroom, Rafael felt his lips twitch up at the multitude of grooming products arranged meticulously in front of the mirror. It seemed Verano had developed a penchant for vanity since they’d last seen each other. Rafael wondered how much the boy had changed, if he would even recognize him after all these years. But deep down, he knew that Verano would have inherited the striking features of his father and brother. It would be hard not to see the resemblance.

He turned back to the bedroom. Opening the wardrobe, his fingers brushed over the delicate fabrics of Verano’s clothes. Silky button-downs, cashmere sweaters in pastel shades. They were a far cry from the rough, utilitarian garments Rafael wore, each piece chosen for its durability and practicality rather than style.

A sudden pang of envy twisted in his gut, but he forced it down, reminding himself that these pretty things were for soft, weak men who had no place in the brutal world he inhabited. And he wasn’t weak. He’d survived the hell of prison, hadn’t he?

“Nice clothes won’t save you out there,” he muttered, running his hand along the hangers once more.

As he did so, his thoughts turned to what Raul Garcia had hinted at, that Verano might be drawn to other men. His brow furrowed as he scanned the room for any evidence to support the claim. But what would such proof even look like?

“What am I even looking for?” he growled under his breath, frustration mounting.

He moved around the room, searching drawers and shelves for anything that might give him insight into Verano’s life, his secrets, his passions. But the more he searched, the more he realized he couldn’t pinpoint what he sought.

Maybe it doesn’t matter, he mused, leaning against the dresser. All I need to do is bring him back. Whatever his preferences, it’s not my concern.

Shaking off his lingering thoughts, Rafael returned to the kitchen. He noted with satisfaction the presence of an olleta on the sink and a tin filled with good quality Colombian beans. The fancy electric grinder seemed almost out of place in the otherwise modest apartment, but he appreciated its efficiency as he ground the beans. The rich, chocolatey scent of the freshly crushed coffee filled the air, stirring something deep within him, an appreciation for life’s simple pleasures.

Pouring water into the olleta—the small jug so like the ones that adorned the kitchen of every abuela back home—Rafael set it on the stove. He waited for it to reach a vigorous boil, and then tipped the fragrant grounds into the water. Shortly after, he turned off the heat, and watched as the grounds slowly settled. It took him back to his childhood, watching his mother make coffee this way. The grounds had been bad, but her coffee was always good. He hadn’t made coffee this way in five years.

Once the coffee was ready, Rafael poured it off into one of the little cups lined up on the shelf. Only one was on the sink. He figured that meant Verano lived alone.

He lifted the cup, inhaling deeply as the richness of the aroma enveloped him. Taking a mouthful, he smiled in satisfaction. The taste of good coffee had a way of grounding him, reminding him of where he came from.

Settling into a chair across from the doorway, he allowed himself a moment to savor the coffee. This moment of stillness was precious. Soon things would change, and quickly.

Despite his attempt at balance, his nerves tightened with every footfall in the hallway. He savored the last of his coffee and set down the cup. And just in time. As the sound of keys jangling echoed through the door, he pushed himself to his feet, stepping silently behind it.

The door swung open, and a figure stepped inside, oblivious to Rafael’s presence. In a swift motion, Rafael shoved the door closed again with a bang, startling the newcomer who spun around to face him.

“What the—” The man’s voice broke off as his eyes met Rafael’s, shock written all over his beautiful face. Rafael couldn’t help but stare.

It was Verano all right. The same nose, the same jaw, the same wide, black-lashed eyes. But his cheekbones seemed higher, his skin luminous, and his hair hung in a shimmering cascade down his back. He was, simply, beautiful, with a mouth so pretty it made Rafael’s lips ache.

Shit, Rafael thought, taken aback. But he recovered quickly, plastering on a grin. “Hola, Veranito. Remember me?

Chapter Four

Summer’s heart leaped like a fish at the sight of a stranger in his apartment. He instantly recognized the man as a cartel member, even though he wore civilian clothes. Everything about him from his stance to the stubble on his jaw screamed ‘dangerous.’

“Veranito,” the man said with a dark grin, “¿Recuerdame?”

Summer’s breath hitched. That nickname. That smile. Those eyes.

“Rafael?” he asked weakly.

God, it was him. Rafael. Holy shit.

He was a striking figure. His dark hair hung in loose curls around his face, framing sharp, intense black eyes that Summer would never forget as long as he lived. This was Rafael all right, but not the man he remembered from his childhood. This man was harder, colder, infinitely more terrifying.

“You’re out of prison,” Summer said, unable to believe it. No, the truly unbelievable thing was that he’d forgotten to count the days.

Rafael snorted. “I am. Happy to see me?” He sounded bitter, raw, like the softness had been worn away, exposing the bone and steel he was underneath.

The reality of Rafael now, hardened by prison, clashed with the man who lived in Summer’s memory. A confused mix of feelings washed over him: anxiety, fear, relief and a sting of something he couldn’t let show.

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