Chapter 8
Darling
I don’t sleep.
Not really.
The Saints Outlaws keep the party going until the sky over Miami fades from black to that strange gray-blue that comes right before the sun decides to punish the entire city.
Boots thud through the hallway outside the back room, heavy and careless.
Men laugh like the night hasn’t wrung every ounce of violence and whiskey out of them.
The bass finally dies sometime close to dawn, but the echoes of it stay inside my ribs.
And underneath that, deeper, there’s another echo I can’t shake.
Diablo’s mouth on my skin.
His hands.
The way he looked at me like I was the only true thing left in his world.
I stare at the ceiling, watching faint neon from Vice Ink’s sign bleed through the narrow window and paint the walls red and blue. Every time I close my eyes I see the same moment replaying.
Diablo standing between me and Carmen.
She stays.
The words circle my head like vultures.
It should feel like a victory.
Instead, it feels like the moment before a war breaks open. Especially since he walks out right after. After her. Leaving me locked in this room to cry myself to almost sleep.
The sky outside turns pale and sticky, the kind of morning Miami specializes in. Humid air creeps through the cracked window. Somewhere outside, a siren wails and fades. Somewhere closer, a car stereo is still thumping reggaeton like the city never learned the concept of sleep.
I roll onto my side, the mattress creaking softly.
My body is heavy with exhaustion, but my brain refuses to shut down.
My ribs ache where they always ache. My throat feels raw from holding back too many words.
Between my thighs feels… tender, and I hate that my mind goes right there, hate that my skin remembers Diablo before it remembers my pride.
Carmen’s voice slips back into my head. “I’m protecting what my father built. You’re risking everything. For what? A Calle Ocho stray?”
I press my face into the pillow, trying to shove the thought away.
That’s exactly what she wants.
A soft knock interrupts the spiral before it digs too deep.
Not aggressive. Not the sharp knock Carmen gave the door last night.
Vice’s voice rumbles through the wood, half amused, half business. “Prez said this goes in here.”
The door opens slowly and Magic steps inside carrying a travel cage.
For half a second my brain doesn’t process what I’m looking at.
Then white feathers shift inside the bars and my heart leaps straight into my throat.
Inside the cage is my cockatoo.
Snow-white body. A ridiculous crest that pops up like he’s permanently offended by everything. Black beak that looks too sharp for how silly he acts. His eyes lock on me and his whole body goes rigid like he’s about to deliver a speech to Congress.
“Disco,” I breathe.
The bird screams the second he spots me. Loud. Furious. Betrayed. He flaps once like he’s trying to launch himself through the bars.
“?Mami!” he yells, clear as day, and then immediately follows it with, “??Qué pasó?!” like he’s running an interrogation.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, rushing forward. “Disco, hey, hey.”
Magic sets the cage carefully on the small table by the bed. Disco swivels his head back and forth like a tiny surveillance camera, crest up, eyes sharp, chattering and screeching at the same time.
“?Dale! ?Dale!” he yells, like he’s hyping himself up for violence.
Magic pauses, eyebrows lifting. “He always talk like that?”
“He talks a lot,” I say, already sliding my fingers through the bars. “He’s… opinionated.”
Disco hops toward my hand immediately and nips my knuckle. Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to make sure I’m real. Then he leans his head into my fingers like a diva accepting worship.
“?Besito!” he demands.
I laugh, and the sound surprises me with how normal it feels. “You want a kiss now?”
“?Besito, mami!” he screams again, then adds, “?No llores!” like he knows things I never said out loud.
My throat tightens. I press my forehead to the cool metal bars for a second, breathing him in. Like bird seed and home.
Magic watches, quiet amusement in his eyes.
“He good?” he asks.
“He’s better than most men,” I say, voice rough.
Magic lets out a short laugh under his breath. “I’ll take your word for it.”
He turns and heads for the door, pausing just long enough to give Disco one last skeptical glance. Disco freezes, stares him down, crest high.
“?Policía!” Disco squawks.
Magic barks a laugh. “Yeah, okay. Bird’s got attitude.”
“He lives with me,” I say.
“Fair point.” Magic looks at me, the humor fading into something steadier. “Prez said you need anything, you tell Dusty. And you don’t open the front for nobody but me or him. Comprende?”
I nod, even though my stomach knots at the word need.
Magic leaves. The door closes behind him and the room falls quiet again, quiet the way it can only be in a building that still smells like last night’s party and tomorrow’s violence.
Disco tilts his head sideways and chirps at me like he’s asking what the hell happened. His crest lowers a little, then pops up again like he remembered he’s dramatic.
“You’re okay,” I murmur.
My fingers scratch gently along his neck feathers and he leans into the touch like he’s the most important thing in the world.
“I’m okay.”
The words feel untrue the moment they leave my mouth.
The back room is different in daylight.
Less secret.
Less dramatic.
More honest.
A holding cell with nicer sheets.
I grab the small bag of bird food Magic must have scooped up from my apartment and pour some into Disco’s dish. He bobs his head excitedly and starts chattering nonsense syllables that sound suspiciously like Spanish words he learned from the neighbors.
“?Dale, dale, dale!” he mumbles with his beak buried in seeds.
The normalcy of it hurts more than I expect.
He has no idea how close we came to losing everything.
Or maybe he does.
Birds notice more than people think.
As usual, Disco fills his belly and goes into an almost comatose state afterwards.
I glance toward the door.
There’s no lock on the inside.
I think of how I cracked it open earlier to look down the hallway and saw Dusty stationed at the far end. Young. Eager. Wearing his responsibility like armor. He stood there like guarding a hallway was the most important job in the world, because in a club, it is when the president says it is.
Off-limits.
Protected.
Contained.
That’s me.
The engaged biker president’s secret. Because if Carmen knew what happened in that office. Really knew. She’d claw my eyes out or worse.
I change into the jeans and black tank Magic grabbed from my apartment. The clothes smell faintly like my place. Like stale air, cheap detergent and the quiet stress of living somewhere you never fully relax. The fabric settles against my skin like memory.
When I lift the tank over my head, my body reminds me of Diablo.
My skin still feels touched in places I didn’t know could remember.
I swallow hard and shove the thought down.
Carmen’s voice drifts through my mind again.
“Little Havana’s charity case,” she called me.
My stomach twists.
What if she’s right?
I shake my head immediately.
No.
That’s exactly what she wants.
Instead of sulking, I get on my phone and send a text.
The hallway outside grows quiet around ten in the morning. Most of the Saints have finally crashed somewhere in the building. Somewhere, a man snores loud enough to make the walls vibrate.
I wait ten minutes longer.
Carrying the travel cage, I open the door.
Dusty straightens instantly down the corridor, like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.
“Ma’am.”
“Don’t,” I say automatically.
I brush past him before he can finish whatever sentence he’s about to attempt. His boots shift. He takes one uncertain step like he’s considering stopping me.
“Don’t. I’ll scream,” I say, daring him.
He smirks. “Scream as loud as you want. I happen to like that.”
“You lay one finger on me, and I’ll tell Diablo you hurt me. That you broke in to the room and tried to fuck what’s his,” I threatened the thug.
He doesn’t move.
“I’ll tell all the Saints you have a little red dick like a dog,” I bark like I’m loca.
He freezes. He can’t grab me. Not without turning it into a scene.
“Prez said you’re supposed to stay,” he calls after me, voice cracking like he hates that he has to say it.
“Prez isn’t my father,” I throw back.
My voice comes out sharper than I intend, but I keep walking. My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my teeth.
Dusty hesitates. Then his voice follows again, more desperate.
“I gotta tell him you left.”
“Then tell him,” I say without looking back. “He doesn’t own me.”
That’s the line I feed myself like medicine.
I’m not sure I believe it.
Outside, Miami is already sweating.
The sun sits high, bright and merciless.
Palm trees sway lazily above cracked sidewalks.
Heat rises off the asphalt like the city is smoking.
Somewhere down the block a car stereo blasts music so loud the bass shakes the air.
A guy at a ventanita window laughs and orders cafecito like it’s the only religion he needs.
I inhale deeply.
Salt air.
Gasoline.
Freedom.
My phone buzzes before I even unlock the screen.
Lady.
I answer immediately.
“I’m outside.”
“I know,” she replies. “Around the corner. Black Range Rover. Get in.”
Of course she is.
Lady never half-commits to anything.
I round the corner and spot the SUV instantly. Glossy black paint reflecting sunlight like a mirror. I slide into the passenger seat and shut the door behind me.
The interior smells like leather and vanilla gloss, like money trying to pretend it isn’t blood-stained.
Lady glances at me from behind oversized sunglasses.
“You look like hell,” she says gently.
“Thank you.”
She pulls into traffic like the road belongs to her, cutting between cars like the rules are suggestions.