Chapter 9
Darling
Eclipse sits on top of South Beach like it owns the sky.
The elevator doors open onto a rooftop that feels more like a floating city than a nightclub, all glass walls and polished white marble reflecting the glow of Miami’s endless lights.
The pool stretches along the edge of the building, glowing electric blue beneath strings of warm bulbs that sway in the humid wind.
Beyond the railing, the Atlantic spreads out black and endless, waves flashing silver when moonlight catches their crests.
Disco is safe back at Lady’s condo, covered in his travel cage with a bowl full of seeds and a view of Biscayne Bay he doesn’t deserve. He screamed, “?Dale!” at us twice when we left like he was giving permission.
I didn’t come to Eclipse to be safe.
I came to be seen.
The bass moves through the floor in smooth, heavy pulses.
It travels up through my heels and into my ribs before I even hear the beat.
Somewhere behind me a bottle pops open and laughter spills into the night air, bright and careless.
The whole place smells like expensive perfume, sunscreen, and money trying to pretend it’s innocent.
Lady stands in the DJ booth like she belongs there more than gravity itself.
Headphones hang around her neck, one hand lifted as she blends the track into something darker and slower.
The crowd moves when she moves. Influencers with perfect hair and designer bags cluster near the pool, filming themselves under the neon glow.
A promoter in linen whispers into a phone like he’s running the stock market instead of a VIP list. Ball players in designer sneakers laugh too loud.
Crypto idiots flex bottles like they invented champagne.
And me.
I stand near the edge of the rooftop with ocean wind lifting strands of my hair. The black dress Lady forced on me hugs my body like it remembers every curve I tried to forget existed. My heels click softly against the tile when I shift my weight, sharp and controlled.
Men notice.
They always do.
Tonight I don’t pretend not to see it.
A waiter in a crisp white jacket slides up with a tray of champagne flutes. I take one without hesitation, letting the cool glass settle between my fingers. Bubbles race up the side like tiny fireworks.
At last, I let myself stand still and breathe.
Maybe I belong here.
Maybe I deserve to.
“Jesus,” Lady mutters beside me when she slips away from the booth between tracks.
Her gaze sweeps over me from head to toe, slow and approving. “You look like revenge.”
“Good,” I say, lifting the glass to my lips.
The champagne tastes sharp and cold, the kind of expensive alcohol that pretends it isn’t dangerous.
Lady grins, resting her elbow against the railing. “Half the room thinks you’re somebody famous.”
“Let them.”
She laughs softly under her breath. “You always did like chaos.”
Before I can answer, the elevator at the far end of the rooftop dings.
The sound is small. Ordinary.
But something inside my chest goes still.
The doors slide open and black leather spills out into the glow of the rooftop lights. Saints Outlaws cuts. Saints Outlaws patches stretched across broad backs. The air around them changes, like the rooftop just remembered the real city below it.
They don’t belong in a place like this.
That’s exactly why they walk in like they own it.
My pulse jumps.
Diablo steps off the elevator last.
He looks different under the South Beach lights.
Dark jeans. A black button-down pulled tight across his shoulders.
Hair pushed back from his face. The shadow along his jaw makes him look even harder than usual.
He scans the rooftop like he’s stepping onto a battlefield instead of a party, eyes moving over exits, corners, sightlines.
Then he sees me.
The moment lands like a punch.
His gaze locks onto mine across the rooftop. His shoulders tense slightly, and something in the air between us snaps tight.
He doesn’t smile.
He looks hungry.
Lady inhales beside me. “Oh hell.”
“I didn’t invite him,” I say quietly.
“I know you didn’t.”
The Saints spread out in slow, deliberate steps the way trained men do when they’re claiming ground.
Two peel toward the pool edge, eyes on the crowd.
One takes the stairwell door like it’s instinct.
Vice drifts to the bar area, scanning faces.
Another hangs back near the elevator, watching anyone who might try to leave fast.
Influencers glance up from their phones, laughter fading when they see the leather and the patches. A couple people keep filming anyway, because Miami will record anything as long as it looks expensive.
The atmosphere shifts.
The glitter fades.
Something sharper slips into the night air.
Diablo keeps walking toward me without breaking eye contact. The music deepens when Lady slides back into the booth, changing the beat to something heavier and darker like her hands can sense violence before it spills.
He stops a few feet away.
“You look good,” he says.
The words don’t sound like a compliment.
They sound like an accusation.
“You look out of place,” I reply.
His mouth twitches faintly. “This city is mine, mami.”
“And this rooftop isn’t.”
He steps closer anyway.
The wind off the ocean carries his scent with it. Leather. Smoke. Heat. That familiar dark warmth that hits the back of my throat like memory and makes my body do traitorous things.
“I told you to stay,” he says quietly.
“I don’t take orders.”
His gaze drifts down my shoulder where the strap of my dress leaves skin exposed. The makeup did its job. For once I don’t look like a battered woman. Heat spreads there instantly, like his eyes touch.
“You think this is safe?” he asks.
I lift my chin. “Safer than your clubhouse.”
His lips flatten. “Carino, you don’t know what safe is.”
Before he can say more, the elevator dings again.
The sound cuts through the music.
Different cut. Different patch.
The tension shifts instantly from possessive to lethal.
A biker steps onto the rooftop wearing a white denim cut with a skull patch across the back. Miami Mutherfukers. His posture is relaxed in a way that suggests he enjoys trouble. He looks like the kind of man who would smile while he set a match to a house.
His eyes scan the crowd until they land on Diablo.
Then they flick to me.
His smile widens.
“Well I’ll be damned,” the man calls out loudly.
The music doesn’t stop, but the people do. Conversations falter. Heads turn. Phones lift a little higher.
“Saints making South Beach the slums?” he calls again.
Diablo shifts half a step forward without making a show of it. The movement places him between me and the stranger in a way that looks casual unless you know exactly what you’re seeing.
“Wrong party,” Diablo says evenly.
The rival biker laughs softly. “Maybe I came for the view.”
His gaze drags across me slowly, hungry and disrespectful.
Something black moves through Diablo’s expression.
The rival reaches inside his cut.
Time doesn’t slow.
My body does.
My breath catches in my throat like it’s stuck on a hook.
The first gunshot cracks through the night like thunder.
Screams explode across the rooftop. Champagne flutes shatter against the tile. The bass cuts off mid-beat and the world fills with raw chaos. Influencers scatter, shrieking, clutching their phones like they’re clutching their souls. People dive for cover behind lounge chairs and marble tables.
Diablo moves before my brain catches up. His arm wraps around my waist and drags me down behind the concrete bar with brutal force.
“Stay down,” he snarls, voice pure command.
More gunshots erupt. Saints pull weapons from beneath their cuts, movements fast and practiced. Vice is already shouting orders, short and sharp. One of the Saints kicks over a table for cover. Another fires toward the elevator.
Champagne sprays across the white tile like glittering rain. My heart pounds so hard it feels like it’s shaking my whole body. Diablo’s chest presses against my back as he shields me completely, one arm tight around my waist, the other braced on the bar. His body is a wall.
“You okay?” he demands.
“I’m fine,” I choke out, and my voice doesn’t sound like mine.
He rises just enough to peer over the bar and fires twice. Controlled. Precise. Like he’s done this a hundred times and hated it every time.
Sirens start wailing somewhere in the distance, faint at first, then growing. The rival biker disappears toward the elevator, ducking behind fleeing bodies.
“Move,” Diablo orders.
He yanks me up and steers me toward the stairwell instead of the elevators. His hand clamps at my lower back, firm, guiding, a grip that tells anyone watching I’m under Saints protection. The concrete steps echo under our feet as we run down them two at a time.
On the stairs, I allow myself to feel panic. By the time we burst into the humid Miami night at street level, my legs feel like they might collapse. Motorcycles and a black SUV are already staged at the curb like they planned this outcome.
Of course they did.
Saints aren’t just on their Harleys. They planned to carry me out of there, gunshots or not.
Diablo shoves me into the back seat. Vice jumps into the front. The engine roars and the tires squeal against the pavement as they rip away from the curb flanked by bikes. Miami blurs past in neon, palm shadows, scooters, sirens, and cops not yet where they need to be.
Nobody speaks during the drive.
My hands won’t stop trembling as I pull out my phone to text Lady.
She’s okay. She’s with Shady. Diablo sits close enough that his knee brushes mine with every turn.
Close enough that I can feel his rage vibrating off his skin.
When the SUV finally swings into the alley behind Vice Ink, the building looks like what it really is. Not a nightclub or a church.
A fortress.