Page 90 of Desperate People

Then I hear it.

Her stomach.

A soft rumble.

“You hungry, Angel?”

She slaps a hand over it, laughing. “I guess I didn’t eat before. I was too nervous.”

I nearly moan at the sound of her laugh.

God, she’s sweet.

I don’t even think before I tell the driver to stop at a roadside food truck with faded yellow paint and music thumping from a speaker zip-tied to the window.

“You ever had alcapurrias?” I ask, already out of the car.

“Nope.”

“Mofongo?”

“Nope. Sounds vaguely sinful.”

I grin. “You’ll like it.”

I order half the menu—roast pork, sweet plantains, arroz con gandules, bacalaítos, and pastelillos—talking fast in Spanish, watching the cook’s eyes widen when he spots Lucy, her head turned, facing me from the car window.

They always notice her.

But right now, she’s not some model or internet sensation.

She’s my wife.

My Diamond Girl.

“Papi, te pegaste con esa mujer tan bella.”

The man behind the food stand grins as he boxes up our order, throwing a wink my way while his eyes linger—respectfully—on Lucy.

I inhale deeply, savoring the mix of fried plantains, slow-roasted pork, and garlic that fills the air, and nod as I reach for the box.

He’s not wrong.

She’s radiant in the soft island light, her hair tousled by the breeze, her lips pink from the passionfruit soda we shared on the ride over. And even if I didn’t speak a word of Spanish, I’d know exactly what he meant.

I hold the box with one hand, slip my other around her waist, and say with no little amount of pride, “Es mi esposa. Y créeme, lo sé—me saqué la loto.”

She turns to look at me, those blue eyes wide and warm, and just like that, I know the food isn’t the only thing I’ll be devouring tonight.

Cause the way she looks at me—starving, and not just for food—makes something shift in my chest again.

Like maybe this isn’t just a safe house.

Maybe it’s home.

We pull up the private road to my estate—a stretch of pristine beachfront walled off by tall palms and a steel gate I installed myself.

The house is low and modern, white stone and wood, built to resist hurricanes and stalkers alike. Floor-to-ceiling windows face the water.

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