Chapter 3
Diablo
Three years later, Miami still tastes like blood and regret.
I rule it now. The Saints Outlaws MC. Every sinner who walks through my door.
Every vice with a price tag. I wear the crown they handed me the night Rafael Solano died, and it fits like a curse, heavy as a wet cut in August heat.
Power, money, women. None of it fills the space she left behind, not even on nights when the clubhouse is loud and the liquor is flowing and I could have anything I want with a snap of my fingers.
Darling Rivera should be a memory by now. A name that fades. A face I stop seeing in the dark.
But the thought of her keeps me up at night.
It’s not the only thing.
Miami doesn’t sleep. It sweats. It moves like it’s got somewhere to be and a warrant it’s running from. It keeps grinding, keeps flexing, keeps daring you to blink first, and I learned the hard way that if you blink in this city, you end up dead or broke or owned.
Even at midnight, the heat clings like a bad decision, thick and sticky, crawling under my cut and soaking into the ink on my skin.
Neon bleeds down the street outside Vice Ink, palm trees swaying like they know secrets, bass from a reggaeton spot two blocks down rattling the windows.
The air is wet and electric, full of exhaust, ocean, cologne, and cheap perfume drifting in from tourists who think they came here to get wild, not realizing they’re walking through a place where men disappear for less.
Tourists think Miami is beaches and bodies and plastic smiles.
They don’t see the blood under the glow. They don’t see the way a corner can turn into a grave if you say the wrong thing to the wrong man. They don’t hear the hush that hits when a patched crew rolls by and every civilian suddenly remembers they got somewhere else to be.
Vice Ink is mine. Home base. Old church turned clubhouse. Sanctuary when we need it. Shopfront when we don’t. The front smells like antiseptic and ozone, sharp and clean, the way you want your ink room to smell. But the back breathes smoke, whiskey, sweat, and old leather.
Out front needles hum like angry bees. Fresh ink shines under the lights. Men sit in wooden pews trying to act hard while their skin gets carved into art they’ll wear to the grave.
Outside bikes line the alley like predators at rest, chrome catching neon, engines ticking as they cool. A prospect wipes down a Harley like his life depends on it, because in this club, it does.
My brothers fill the space with low laughter and loud mouths. Curses in Spanish and English. Spanglish that cuts like a knife and lands like a joke. The clink of bottles. Dominoes slapping on a table in the corner like small gunshots. The crack of a pool break like a real one.
Patches everywhere. My cut on my back like a second skin.
Top rocker. Bottom rocker. The center patch that makes men’s faces change when they see it, even the ones who pretend they don’t know.
They know. Everybody in the 305 knows. Saints Outlaws ain’t a name you say like it’s a compliment. It’s a fucking warning.
I stand at the bar built from a salvaged church pew, fingers wrapped around a glass of rum I haven’t touched.
The wood still bears faint carvings from whatever saint used to watch over it.
Now it’s soaked in spilled liquor and lies and old sins, and it fits us just fine.
Irony tastes sweet in this city, and I learned a long time ago that saints don’t protect men like me.
They call me Diablo for a reason.
I don’t flinch when men bleed. I don’t hesitate when decisions cost lives. When the last president died, gunned down in a drive-by meant for someone else, the club almost fractured overnight.
Miami doesn’t wait for grief. It eats weakness alive, spits it out, and then comes back for seconds.
The day Rafael dropped, half the city started sniffing around like we were wounded.
Like we were meat. Rival crews. Street boys trying to make a name.
Hustlers who’d never look a patched man in the eye suddenly had opinions.
Even the cops got brave, cruising slow like they didn’t remember who they were dealing with.
Three years ago, I took the seat because someone had to. Because I was already doing the work. Because blood respects blood. Because in this life, you either hold the knife or you end up under it.
And because the deal demanded it.
My gaze flicks to the far side of the room where Carmen Solano holds court without even trying.
She doesn’t have to raise her voice. Doesn’t have to smile.
She was born into this life. Knows how to wear power like a silk dress, smooth and tight, strangling anyone who pulls too hard.
She sits with her legs crossed like a queen, taking up space like she owns the air, and every man in this room knows exactly who she is.
Daughter of our fallen president. Royal blood in an outlaw world. Untouchable. Necessary.
She’s not wearing a cut, but she doesn’t need one. Carmen’s name is her patch.
She looks over at me, and the look on her face says the same thing it always does. Remember your place. Remember your promises. Remember who you belong to now. It pisses me off every damn time, and the worst part is she’s not wrong. Not in the way that counts.
The deal was simple. I take the gavel. Become president. I take her hand. I keep the Saints from tearing themselves apart and Miami from smelling weakness.
And I send Darling away.
That was the part I didn’t hesitate on at the time.
I told myself it was mercy. That if she stayed, this world would chew her up and spit out bones. That loving me would ruin her. I told myself a lot of bullshit, because it was easier than admitting the truth.
I pushed. Cut ties. Let her believe she wasn’t enough. Let her walk away thinking I didn’t give a damn, because if she hated me, she might actually stay gone.
I’ve burned cities for less than the lie I told her.
A woman brushes past me, hips swaying, lipstick too red, dress too tight.
She presses into my side like I’m a prize she can win if she tries hard enough.
I don’t even know her name. That’s half the problem and half the reason Carmen thinks she can throw words like loyalty at me with a straight face.
“Diablo,” the woman purrs, nails sliding over my cut like she’s touching a trophy. “Buy me a drink, papi. I’ll make it worth your while.”
I glance down at her hand like it’s something dirty stuck to my skin.
“Get your fucking hand off me,” I say, calm as a revolver.
She laughs like I’m flirting. Like she’s used to men in Miami folding when a pretty mouth asks.
“Come on,” she says, dragging the word out. “Don’t act like you don’t want it.”
“I didn’t say I don’t want it,” I tell her. “I said get the fuck off me.”
Her smile falters. She backs away fast when she sees my eyes. Good. Smart girls survive longer in Miami. The dumb ones end up on a missing poster in a bodega window with a candle under it.
A chair scrapes behind me. Magic leans in, voice low, breath smelling like beer and menthols. He’s my sergeant-at-arms, my hammer, the man who handles problems before they make it to my table.
“We got a problem,” he says.
I don’t look away from the room. “We always do.”
“Not like this.” He hesitates, and Magic doesn’t hesitate unless the truth has teeth. “Someone hit one of our cash runs. Took product and disappeared. Stole a Harley.”
I purse my lips. It registers in my teeth. A hit on our money is a hit on our respect, and in MC life, respect is everything.
“Who?” I ask.
“That’s the thing. Guy’s a nobody. Low-level. Not patched. Not even a prospect. Just a punk we used for runs because he knew the streets and kept his mouth shut.” Magic’s jaw flexes. “But he was sleeping with one of the bartenders in Little Havana.”
“And?”
“Prez,” he breathes. “I don’t want to say.”
The look he gives me is enough.
The air shifts. My chest locks down like a fist closing around my lungs. My grip tightens on the rum glass until it threatens to crack.
“Say her name,” I say.
Magic swallows. “Darling Rivera.”
The room tilts.
Sound drops out for half a second, like the ocean pulling back before a wave hits. I taste copper. Heat spikes under my skin, sudden and violent, the kind that ends in broken bones and bodies in the bay.
No.
I set my glass down carefully. Too carefully. If I don’t control it, I’ll break something. Someone. I’ve learned to keep my temper on a leash in public, but it’s never been tame. It’s just trained.
“She hasn’t been near us in years,” I say. “She wouldn’t.”
“She didn’t,” Magic cuts in. “Guy stole from us and vanished. No bike. No phone. No trail. Like he fell off the MacArthur and the water ate him.”
Which means he ran.
Or he’s already dead.
Either way, the debt doesn’t disappear. Not in my world. Not in MC life. You steal, you pay. One way or another. You or your loved ones.
I turn, finally allowing myself to glance at Carmen.
She’s watching me now, dark eyes sharp, already calculating.
Carmen doesn’t miss anything. She counts breaths.
She tracks loyalty like it’s currency. She’ll know what this means before anyone explains it.
She always does. The corners of her mouth lift like she’s already tasting victory, like she’s about to remind me this is exactly why she wanted Darling gone.
Her voice is bitter when it comes. “No.”
I don’t give her the satisfaction of asking what she means. I already know. No, because Darling is a weakness. No, because Carmen doesn’t like loose ends. No, because Carmen thinks she owns the right to decide who lives in my orbit.
I don’t.
“Bring her in,” I say, choosing to follow protocol.
Magic hesitates again. “Prez.”
The word lands heavy, official, reminding everyone who sits at the head of this table now.
“I said bring her in,” I repeat, and my voice leaves no room for argument. “Ahora. Y sin drama. Nobody touches her.”