Page 125 of Desperate People

“We’re here, Boss.”

I hum low and dark as he pulls up outside the warehouse that doubles as a recording studio for certain celebrities.

From the outside, it’s nothing special. A blank-faced industrial box in a sea of them.

Unmarked. Smart.

No crowds, no screaming fans—just silence.

But I’m not here to admire business acumen.

I’m here to remind a certain arrogant prick what happens when you fuck with mine.

My fury is a living thing inside me—hot, sharp, lethal.

But I’m not the type to storm in guns blazing.

No speeches. No grand announcements.

I walk in like I own the place—because as of seven minutes ago, I fucking do.

El Tigre? He’s gonna have to find a new studio.

And fast.

But first, I can’t help but notice the skeleton crew he’s got with him.

Not what I expected from some flashy reggaetón star.

“Excuse me, you can’t go in there—” a small man steps up, trying to stop me.

I don’t even glance his way.

Ahead, a set of double doors—black, no windows—and a big motherfucker planted right in front of them.

Bodyguard.

I walk straight up to him, locking eyes. He tries to hold the gaze, but my mismatched stare—a sharp, unsettling mix of ice and fire—shakes him like it has so many others before.

“Move,” I growl.

He opens his mouth, probably to argue. Maybe he thinks he can talk me down.

One look at me.

Another at Onyx, and the three other members of my security team fanned out behind him.

That’s enough.

Hands raised in surrender, he steps aside.

I enter the room where a woman sits, fingers flying over the recording equipment.

Inside the booth is Rico—El fucking Tigre himself—and his eyes are closed, pouring every ounce of soul into the mic.

The bastard’s got talent, I’ll give him that.

But talent isn’t going to save him from me.

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