The Miami air was thick and heavy, a stark contrast to the crisp autumn I'd left in New York. I expected a monster, a brute. Luis "El Lobo" Martinez, the wolf, head of the Miami cartel. Andrew had made sure I knew the rumors, the whispers of violence that clung to his name.
But the man who met me at the private airstrip was not a monster.
Luis was handsome, with kind eyes that held a hint of sadness. He took my hand gently.
"Jocelyn," he said, his voice warm. "Welcome home."
He didn't treat me like a possession. He gave me my own wing of his sprawling, beautiful villa. He introduced me to his family-his mother, his cousins, his younger sister Sofia-not as his purchased bride, but as his wife.
They didn't see a stain. They saw a woman who was hurt and alone. They embraced me.
Slowly, over weeks that turned into months, the ice around my heart began to thaw. Luis was protective, respectful. He never forced himself on me. He would sit with me by the ocean at night, telling me stories of his childhood, of the community he fought to protect. He showed me the real Miami, not the one from Andrew's crime files.
I found myself falling in love, a real, healthy love built on respect and shared laughter, not forbidden longing. I became "La Dama," the lady of his house, respected and cherished. For the first time in my life, I felt like I truly belonged somewhere. I was happy.
Two years passed. Two years of peace.
Then, Andrew came.
He wasn't just in the DA's office anymore. He was an Assistant U.S. Attorney, a federal powerhouse celebrated for his ruthless war on organized crime. And he had set his sights on Miami.
The raid was a massacre. It came at dawn, a storm of federal agents descending on our world. The sound of helicopters and gunfire ripped through our peaceful morning. It was a blitzkrieg, a brutal, overwhelming force designed not to arrest, but to annihilate.
Andrew's forces swept through our territory, leaving a trail of death. They didn't distinguish between soldiers and civilians. They shot everyone.