Chapter 8 #2
“You’re not staying there,” she says, talking about my apartment we’re heading toward.
“I don’t have anywhere else.”
“You have me.”
The words land deeper than she probably intends. My throat tightens and I turn my gaze toward the window like I can hide the feeling there.
Miami flashes past in bright murals, bodegas, art déco and pastel buildings that look almost cheerful if you ignore the violence hiding in their shadows. People move fast. Everyone’s dressed like they’re on a stage. Even the broken parts sparkle.
“He chose me,” I say quietly, and even saying it feels dangerous.
Lady glances at me again. “He also chose her.”
I don’t argue.
The truth sits there between us like a bruise.
We pull up outside my apartment building a few minutes later. The door still hangs crooked from last night, the chain dangling uselessly, bent like the Saint Diablo sent didn’t care what it cost to get inside. He could’ve asked for the keys. But Diablo doesn’t think. He just does.
I step in slowly.
For a moment I half expect Rico to be waiting in the dark.
He isn’t.
The apartment feels hollow.
Disco’s big stand is empty. His toys lie scattered across the counter where Magic must have grabbed things quickly. Seed shells dust the corner like snow. The quiet in here feels wrong without Disco’s constant commentary.
While he’s probably chattering in the running, air-conditioned SUV, I scoop up his favorite mirror toy and the rest of his food.
“Carmen,” I mutter under my breath, and I don’t know if I’m saying it because I blame her, or because I can’t stop hearing her voice in my head.
Lady hears me.
“You think she’d touch your place?” she asks.
“She threatened me.”
Lady snorts. “You threatened her position.”
Same thing.
And if Carmen has eyes everywhere, if she’s already turning the club into a chessboard, then my little apartment is just another square.
Back at Lady’s condo, the difference between our lives feels almost surreal.
Her place sits high above Biscayne Bay in a tower made of glass and money. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the living room. The water outside glitters like a sheet of diamonds. Boats drift across the bay like toys, careless and expensive.
“This is the cheapest unit in the building,” she says casually.
I stare down at the infinity pool two floors below and laugh once, sharp and disbelieving.
Lady rolls her eyes. “I’ve got a residency tonight at Eclipse. Private floor. Influencers. Ball players. Crypto idiots. The whole circus.”
“And you want me there why?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Because hiding makes people think you’re weak,” she says.
The words settle into my bones.
They sound like something Diablo would say.
Which makes me hate them.
Which makes me need them.
The next few hours blur together.
Steam fills the bathroom while hot water pounds against my sore ribs. Lady stands behind me at the sink working conditioner into my hair like she’s scrubbing away years of mistakes.
“Rico doesn’t get to mark you,” she mutters, scrubbing harder.
Makeup brushes sweep across my face a little while later. Foundation hides the fading bruises along my collarbone. Highlighter catches cheekbones I forgot I had. She lines my lips a shade darker than I’d usually wear, like she wants my mouth to look dangerous.
She blows out my hair until it falls glossy down my back. My nails get painted a deep red that looks like warning lights. All the while she talks about how she never does her own nails anymore, but she’s not forgotten how. She’s not forgotten where she came from.
She’s sweet, but I can’t help but feel like that Little Havana charity case. I tell her as much.
“Darling. That was me, too. Now look at me.”
Finally she holds up a dress.
Black.
Elegant.
Cut low but not desperate.
“You’re not that biker’s la sancha,” she says.
“Side chick, no, not me,” I say, and the words sink straight into the center of me.
When I step into heels, Disco squawks from his travel cage on the kitchen island like he approves of the transformation.
“?Mami rica!” he yells, loud enough to make Lady choke on a laugh.
“Oh my God,” I gasp, heat shooting up my neck.
Lady covers her mouth, eyes glittering behind her sunglasses even inside. “He did not.”
Disco bobs his head, crest up like he’s proud of himself.
“?Dale!” he adds, like it’s punctuation.
Lady whistles low. “There she is.”
I glance at my reflection in the mirror.
For a moment I barely recognize the woman looking back.
Not Ana.
Not the girl with fading bruises and tired eyes.
Darling Rivera, I decide.
Lady grabs her DJ bag and slides her sunglasses back onto her face.
“Tonight,” she says, “we remind Miami who you are.”
My stomach flips, half nerves, half something reckless.
“And who’s that?”
She grins slowly. “The girl the devil never got over.”
Outside the windows the sun starts sliding toward the horizon, painting the skyline gold. Boats drift across Biscayne Bay. Music creeps through the streets again as Miami wakes up for another night like it can’t help itself.
For the first time in ages, I don’t feel confined.
I feel wild.
And somewhere back at Vice Ink, Diablo is eventually going to realize I’m gone.
Let him chase.
Tonight I’m not hiding.