The humid night air of Rocinha hung heavy, thick with the scent of sweat, cheap perfume, and the faint metallic tang of gun oil. Up on a shadowed rooftop overlooking the labyrinth of alleyways, a BOPE scout crouched low, his night-vision binoculars trained on the flickering lights below. The Baile Moscow pulsed like a living heart in the favela's core—neon strobes cutting through the darkness, bass-heavy funk rattling the tin roofs. There, at the entrance, he spotted them: PCR soldiers, lean and vigilant, slinging AK-47s and AR-15s over their shoulders, eyes scanning the crowd for any sign of trouble. They formed a loose perimeter, blocking off side streets with casual menace, ensuring no unwanted guests crashed Cauã's victory bash.

Down in the BOPE staging area at the favela's edge, Major Rodrigo Nascimento's jaw tightened as he listened to reports, his scarred face illuminated by tactical flashlights. The command post buzzed with controlled chaos—captains barking orders, soldiers slamming magazines into their rifles, the sharp click of Kevlar vests buckling over black fatigues. Balaclavas were yanked down over grim expressions, boots stomping on cracked asphalt as teams formed up. Rodrigo paced like a caged predator, his voice booming over the din, echoing the unyielding fury that had made him a legend in the battalion.

But inside the Baile Moscow, the world was a different beast—alive, electric, oblivious to the storm brewing outside. The air was stifling, saturated with the press of bodies grinding to relentless funk beats, the bass so deep it rattled bones. Colored lights spun wildly overhead, casting kaleidoscopic shadows on sweat-slicked skin, while the sharp aroma of weed smoke mingled with spilled cachaça and the salty tang of ocean breeze sneaking in from the distant shore. Laughter erupted in bursts, glasses clinked, and hips swayed in hypnotic rhythm.

For Santiago Rivera, though, the night held a spark far brighter than Cauã's promotion or his own fresh title as sub-lieutenant. He leaned against a graffiti-scarred wall near the edge of the dance floor, his broad shoulders straining against an open button-up shirt that clung to his tanned, sculpted chest. Dark brown eyes scanned the chaos with habitual sharpness, but a small, private grin tugged at his lips—one month since you'd finally said yes, after seven long months of him chasing you like a man possessed. Just thinking about you made his heart thud harder than the music.

His gaze caught Cauã across the room, the second-in-command pausing in the thick of the crowd to lean in close to a woman with curves that could stop traffic. She laughed, tossing her hair, and Cauã's hand lingered on her waist—a clear sign he'd found his entertainment for the night. Perfect. That was Santiago's cue. He pushed off the wall, weaving through the throng with purposeful strides, his silver crucifix chain glinting under the lights as he nodded to a few PCR soldiers on the way out.

The steep, winding streets of Rocinha sloped downward under his feet, the humid air cooling slightly as he descended, the distant crash of waves from Copacabana whispering promises of escape. There she was—his black Kawasaki Ninja, Ruby, parked in a shadowed alcove, her sleek lines gleaming under a flickering streetlamp. Santiago's grin widened as he approached, running a hand over the handlebars. "Ah, mi Ruby... hoy es el día, nena. Vamos a ver a nuestra reina," he murmured in Spanish, swinging a leg over and revving the engine. It roared to life, a throaty growl that echoed off the favela walls, and he shot off into the night.

The city blurred around him—neon signs whipping by, the salty sea air whipping his shaved head, the vibration of the bike thrumming through his veins like adrenaline. At a red light near Copacabana, he idled and fished his phone from his pocket. A quick text to you: "Mi vida, ya estoy llegando. No aguanto más para verte." He chuckled as your reply popped up—photos of his apartment bedroom, scattered with rose petals, heart-shaped balloons bobbing gently, candles flickering in soft golden light. His surprise for you, set up earlier that day.

Pulling up to the luxury apartment in Copacabana, Santiago parked Ruby with care, grabbing the bouquet of red roses and box of Ferrero Rocher he'd picked up before bounding up the stairs two at a time. The door swung open, and there you were, the sight of you hitting him like a wave. He swept in, pulling you close with one arm, his lips crashing against yours in a kiss that was all fire and devotion, the gifts momentarily forgotten. "Mi reina... carajo, you're even more beautiful than I remembered. Look at you, preciosa, lighting up this place like the sun."

He pulled back just enough to drink you in, his dark eyes smoldering with that mix of playfulness and raw want. "I've been counting the seconds for this. Un mes, nena—and every day with you feels like winning the lottery."

Eventually, you sank onto the plush sofa, the room dimmed to candlelight, the faint hum of traffic below a distant murmur. Santiago's kisses grew deeper, more insistent, his strong hands roaming your back as he murmured against your lips. "You're perfect, mi vida... so fucking perfect. Every curve, every smile—it's all mine."

He shifted, pulling you onto his lap with effortless strength, his fingers teasing the hem of your dress before hooking your panties aside. With a low groan, he freed himself and guided you down, burying himself deep in one smooth thrust. He stilled, just feeling you—hot, wet, tight around him, like coming home. His breath hitched, hands gripping your hips firmly, eyes locked on yours. "Dios, nena... feel that? You're my home, my everything. So warm, so perfect... I'm gonna savor this for a bit, before I make you scream my name."

The moment hung, electric and intimate, until your phone shattered it with a shrill ring, vibrating on the coffee table beside you. It was your father calling.