Chapter 5
Darling
Miami doesn’t do quiet nights. Not in Little Havana, not in Wynwood, not anywhere the Saints Outlaws breathe.
Even the air feels loud here, thick with humidity and music and the restless pulse of a city that refuses to sleep.
By the time they drag me through the heavy doors of Vice Ink, the bass is already vibrating through the floorboards like the building itself has a heartbeat.
From the outside the place still looks like a church.
Old stone. Tall stained-glass windows showing saints with halos and sorrowful eyes.
But inside it’s something else entirely.
Something darker. The music pounds so hard it rattles the bottles behind the bar, and neon lights bounce off chrome motorcycles parked along the walls like they belong there more than pews ever did.
Sweat and cigar smoke hang low under the rafters, thick enough that every breath also tastes.
The humid Miami air sticks to skin like a second layer, carrying the scent of spilled tequila from salt air rolling in from the ocean a few blocks away.
Someone laughs too loudly near the bar. A bottle clinks against another.
The whole room moves like a wave, leather cuts shifting through the crowd, tattoos crawling across throats and knuckles.
Every night’s a party here. Diablo said that once like it was normal, like men break bones and spill blood, then still come home to drink like they’re immortal.
They think they are. Maybe that’s the problem.
The moment Diablo leaves my side, and I step into the chaos alone, my body reacts before my brain can catch up.
My shoulders tighten on instinct. My gaze sweeps the clubhouse the way Diablo taught me to scan for exits and threats.
The old habits claw their way back to the surface even though I hate them.
Every sudden shout makes my pulse jump.
The Saints Outlaws move through the crowd like they own the damn city.
Leather vests cut with their emblem, a skull, barbed wire and shamrocks, seem to glow under the lights.
That three-piece patch makes people pretend they aren’t staring while their bodies still shift out of the way.
Prospects hustle through with eyes down, doing anything to stay useful.
It’s a party but it’s also like the whole room is one bad decision away from violence.
But this isn’t a typical biker scene. It’s Miami. The women in tight dresses and expensive heels who perch on laps, laughing too loud and pouring shots straight into open mouths are on another level. There’s a dress code here for the ladies that I’m seriously violating.
And right at the center of it all stands Diablo.
He isn’t trying to command the room, but the room bends toward him anyway. Like gravity. Like every man here knows exactly who holds the weight of the club on his shoulders.
The whole room is just furniture arranged around him.
Diablo is built the way Miami builds its storms, thick through the shoulders, muscle cut into a man shape, a biker like a storm cloud.
He looks like trouble even when he’s standing still.
His beard is dark and sharp, and his eyes are the kind that make you forget how to blink, hard as cracked Calle Ocho pavement and just as unforgiving.
Ink covers him like a warning. A black cross is stamped on his wrist like he’s already decided what sins he’s willing to commit.
I know that under his cut a heavy sea turtle spreads across his chest like a shield.
Other tattoos fly down his arms land on his fingers like the city tried to brand him and he let it.
There’s steel in him too, little glints at his ears, and that quiet, controlled violence in the way he holds his jaw, like he’s got every impulse on a leash.
Then he’s talking to Vice near the bar, posture loose in that controlled way that says he’s listening while planning something violent at the same time. His tattooed hands are steady. His face is stone. Those eyes flick toward me every few seconds like he’s checking that I’m still breathing.
That ought to make me feel safe.
Instead it makes something restless twist in my stomach. The attention feels heavy, territorial, like I’ve stepped into a cage that’s too familiar.
I hate it.
I crave it.
The worst part is how both feelings exist at the same time.
The music shifts to another reggaeton track, bass thundering harder as the DJ pushes the volume higher. Someone starts chanting along to the lyrics near the bar.
That’s when I look up.
Carmen stands on the balcony above the main floor again, exactly where she was earlier. She isn’t hiding in the shadows. She’s posed like she belongs above everyone else. One manicured hand rests lightly on the railing, long nails catching the neon bleeding through the stained glass.
She looks expensive.
Polished.
The kind of woman who grew up surrounded by money and expectations most people never see until they’re choking on them.
Her gaze finds me instantly.
Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.
She pushes away from the railing and begins descending the staircase with slow, deliberate steps. The crowd shifts automatically to give her space before she even hits the floor. A pocket opens around her like the room is trained to make room for Solano blood.
That alone tells me everything I need to know about who she is in here.
Royalty.
Or something close enough.
I don’t move when she approaches. Not because I’m brave. Because shrinking would taste too much like the years I spent swallowing my voice and pretending bruises didn’t hurt.
I did enough shrinking with Rico.
Never again.
Carmen stops a few feet away from me, expression composed in a way that feels practiced. The diamond ring on her finger catches the neon as she lifts her hand to smooth a strand of hair behind her ear. It’s big. Old. The kind of ring that looks less like jewelry and more like a family decision.
Engaged.
Not married.
The thought slides through my mind sharp and unwelcome.
I shouldn’t care.
The truth is I do.
“Darling Rivera,” Carmen says smoothly, her voice carrying easily over the music like she’s used to being heard.
“Carmen,” I reply.
I don’t add anything respectful to it. No ma’am. No polite softening. Not like when her father ruled the club, and I dated his enforcer. When I thought I could survive if I bowed to her. Her gaze flickers briefly at the lack of deference, like she’s clocking it and filing it away.
Her eyes drop to my collarbone where the fading bruise still stains my skin a sickly shade of yellow and purple. The same bruise Diablo saw. Her gaze lingers there longer than necessary, like she’s studying evidence.
Then she steps closer.
Her perfume hits me first. Something expensive and sharp, citrus on top with something dark underneath. It makes my stomach tighten.
“Little Havana’s charity case. You should leave while you can,” she murmurs quietly enough that only I hear her.
“Why?” I ask.
Her lips curve slightly.
“Miami’s not kind to girls who forget their place.”
The words are sweet. The meaning underneath them isn’t.
I hold her gaze. “What’s my place?”
Her smile widens just a fraction.
“Not in my home.”
I can feel the room watching even if everyone pretends to be busy drinking and laughing. Bikers don’t miss drama. They live for it. They just act like they don’t.
Carmen leans closer until her mouth hovers near my ear.
“He’s engaged,” she whispers softly. “Not confused.”
The words slice through my chest like glass.
I force my spine straighter. “He told you that?”
She pulls back slightly, studying my face like she’s cataloging my reaction.
“He doesn’t need to,” she says. “His ring says it for him.”
My gaze drops to the diamond again. It flashes under neon like it knows it’s winning.
Before I can find the right response, a bright voice cuts through the noise behind me.
“Darling. Damn, it’s really you.”
I turn, relief crashing through me when I see Lady pushing through the crowd. Her hair is piled in glossy curls that bounce with every step. The bodysuit she’s wearing sparkles under the club lights like she’s halfway to a stage.
Carmen sees her coming and steps away like I’m on fire.
She smells like coconut oil and champagne when she reaches me.
“Lady,” I breathe.
Lady Nyx is my friend from high school. My only friend who ever looked at me and didn’t flinch away from what she saw.
I haven’t seen her in years, but I’ve kept up with her career on social media.
I never post myself. No one wants to hear about how broke or bruised you are.
While I’ve stayed hidden, I’ve read about her fabulous life in tabloids.
Our lives couldn’t have turned out more different.
Lady doesn’t walk into Vice Ink so much as she arrives, sunglasses on inside like rules don’t apply to her. She slides through the crowd with a star power that makes men move out of her way without realizing they’re obeying. All men. Even bikers.
The music shifts, and she laughs at something Magic says. That’s when Shady appears like he’s always been there, road captain calm, cut worn like skin, ice blue eyes scanning the room even while the beat keeps breathing.
Lady forgets me, looks him up and down, slow, like she’s reading a tracklist. “You always stand like you’re about to break up a fight,” she says.
Shady’s mouth barely twitches. “That’s ‘cause I usually am.”
“Tragic,” she replies, and then she holds a hand out like a dare. “Come on. Five seconds. Prove you can do something besides glare.”
For a second he doesn’t move, like he’s deciding if she’s worth the trouble. Then he takes her hand.
It isn’t sweet. It isn’t soft. It’s Shady pulling her in with quiet control, Lady going willingly, hips finding the rhythm like she was built for it. Her laugh flashes bright when his hand settles at her waist, and his gaze drops just once, quick and involuntary, like her body surprised him.