Chapter 9 #2
Diablo turns toward me immediately. His hands cup my face, gentler than they have any right to be.
“Breathe,” he murmurs.
“I’m fine,” I insist.
My voice shakes anyway.
His forehead presses to mine.
“You could’ve been hit.”
“I wasn’t.”
“That’s not the point.”
He pulls me out of the vehicle and guides me inside. The shop smells like stale smoke and spilled liquor from the night before, like sin that never fully leaves. A couple patched men glance up as we pass. One of them nods at Diablo, then looks away when he sees my face. Respect. Or fear.
His hand stays firm at my back as he leads me upstairs. He doesn’t stop until we reach his private room. The door shuts behind us with a quiet click.
Silence crashes down around us.
My body still hums with adrenaline. My skin feels too tight. My lungs refuse to settle.
Diablo steps closer.
“You think this is a game?” he asks quietly.
“I didn’t invite a shooting.”
“You walked into a room full of sharks.”
“So did you.”
His hands settle on my waist, thumbs pressing in like he’s checking I’m real.
“You don’t understand how many men would use you to get to me,” he says.
The words land heavy.
“I’m not your weakness,” I snap.
“You are,” he says without hesitation.
The honesty steals the air from my lungs.
His rough hand slides slowly along my side, careful as it moves upward.
Then, abruptly he cups my breast like I’m his to touch however he chooses.
My body reacts anyway. Fire pools in my belly.
Memories of last night, that wicked aftershock is still there.
More than that, years of passionate nights light my skin on fire.
“You could’ve died,” he says again.
“And you could’ve let me,” I fire back. “You don’t own me.”
He pulls me closer.
“Yes I do.”
The space between us disappears. My breath catches when our bodies align like they were built for this, like they don’t care about rings or deals or consequences.
His mouth brushes the corner of mine.
Electric.
My fingers curl into his shirt as tension snaps tight, every nerve awake. The memory of him floods me all at once, sharp enough to make my knees weak.
He kisses me slowly.
Nothing rushed.
Nothing desperate.
Just heat and control and three years of unfinished longing pushing into my mouth like a confession.
His hand slides into my hair, gripping just enough to make my scalp tingle. My back hits the wall. His body cages mine without crushing. His mouth moves down my jaw, brushing my neck carefully like he’s trying not to bruise what’s already been bruised.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he murmurs.
I don’t.
His hands slide along my hips, thumbs hooking closer, daring. The warmth of his body presses against mine, hard and insistent. And not the only thing hard, and my breath breaks when I feel exactly how affected he is.
“Darling,” he breathes, and my name sounds like a threat and a prayer.
For a moment the world shrinks to just us.
Then something inside me snaps.
I push him back.
He stares at me, breathing hard, eyes dark, mouth swollen from kissing me like he forgot how to behave.
“You don’t get to have me like this,” I say quietly. “Not while she wears your ring.”
His expression hardens.
“She’s not in this room.”
“She’s always in the room,” I whisper, and it comes out rawer than I meant.
I step away.
He drags a hand through his hair, frustration written across his face.
“Stay,” he says, quieter now, like he’s not ordering. Like he’s asking.
I hesitate.
The heat in his eyes almost pulls me back.
Instead I shake my head.
“I need air.”
“My men won’t let you leave the clubhouse again,” he warns.
I leave the room before I can change my mind.
The hallway is quiet in that aftershock way, like the building itself is listening for sirens.
Most of the Saints are still out handling the rooftop mess. Cleaning up shell casings before sunrise. Leaning on bartenders and doormen. Paying for silence. Making sure the story doesn’t grow teeth and bite the club back. Miami doesn’t care who started it, it cares who looks guilty on camera.
Vice Ink feels half-empty, half-haunted.
The party bass is gone. The neon still bleeds through the stained glass, bruised pink and blue on the floor. There’s a smear of something dark near the back hallway and a prospect is on his knees with bleach and a rag, scrubbing like God is watching.
I step around him, my stomach tight.
My whole body is running on that wired, trembling adrenaline you get after you’ve heard gunshots and lived through it. It makes everything loud. It makes every shadow look like a decision.
When I step into the bar, Lady is posted near the end like she owns the room even without a DJ booth. Her sunglasses are on top of her head, hair perfect, gloss still shining like nothing could touch her. It’s a lie. I can see the truth in her eyes.
The second she spots me, her face cracks.
“Oh, bebé,” she breathes, and I don’t even make it two steps before I’m in her arms.
She hugs me hard like she’s trying to squeeze the fear out of my ribs. I cling back, because for one second I need to feel something that isn’t danger.
“You good?” she demands, pulling back to scan my face, my wrists, the way my hands won’t stop shaking.
“I’m alive,” I say, because in this city that’s the only honest answer.
Shady is with her, leaning against the bar like a shadow that learned to look human.
Road captain posture. He is tall and lean and calm in that dangerous way, like the chaos outside is just weather to him.
His cut is half unzipped, road grime still on his boots, and he looks like he has been moving all night without ever letting his pulse show.
“Darling,” he says, his voice hushed. “You need water?”
“No,” I lie.
Lady makes a sound like she wants to smack the lie out of me. “Sit your ass down before you fall down,” she snaps, then softens just enough to press her forehead to mine for half a second. “I heard shots. I heard your name. I heard somebody say Diablo went feral.”
“He didn’t,” I say too fast, and that alone feels like a confession.
Shady’s mouth twitches like he’s got something smart and mean in his throat, but he keeps it in. He just nods once, like he heard the truth anyway.
For a minute, we’re all talking at once.
Reliving pieces of it. Lady describing the rooftop bar, the way the crowd scattered, the way she hit the deck without spilling her drink because she’s ridiculous like that.
Shady talking about the bikes, the routes, the way Magic and Vice moved like they were born for this.
Me trying not to picture the muzzle flashes again.
Instead of ordering a prospect, Shady slips behind the bar and makes us drinks. It’s sweet. Lady notices him giving us space as well, and smiles when she squeezes my hand.
I tell her everything as Shady shakes margaritas. About how Diablo and I almost had sex again.
An hour passes, and the place is still quiet around the three of us. My shoulders finally relax. Lady leans into Shady and he kisses her head.
It’s sweet. They look happy as they hold hands like teenagers. Something tugs at my spine.
My bag. My keys. My phone. I left them in Diablo’s private room.
I tell myself I’m going to grab my bag. I tell myself I’m going to go home one way or another and change out of these clothes that smell like gunshots and adrenaline. I tell myself I just need a minute away from people’s eyes.
The truth is uglier.
Suddenly, I want to see him.
Lady catches the shift in my face instantly. “Don’t,” she warns, low.
“I’m just going to,” I start.
Shady straightens a fraction, eyes sharpening. “You shouldn’t go alone.”
“I’m not asking permission,” I snap, too sharp, because fear turns into attitude in my mouth.
Lady’s gaze flicks to Shady, a silent exchange. He gives the smallest nod like, I’ll be right here.
Lady squeezes my hand hard.
My throat tightens.
“What the hell?” I ask.
Shady looks away.
They’re not just worried for my physical safety. Now I have to go.
The hallway toward Diablo’s room is dim, quieter than the bar, quieter than it should be after a shootout. A couple patched men are posted at the end like sentries, talking in low voices. One of them looks at me, recognizes me, and shifts aside without a word.
My heartbeat gets louder with every step.
His door is slightly open.
Not wide. Not closed.
Just open enough to feel like a dare.
My hand touches the edge and pushes.
It swings inward.
And my whole body goes ice.
Diablo is on the bed.
Carmen is straddling him.
Not a suggestion. Not an accident. Not a misunderstanding.
Her hair is down like black silk, perfect. Her blouse is wrinkled. Her ring catches the light when she shifts, bright and cruel like she wants it seen. Diablo’s shirt is open beneath her hands. I can see the ink on his chest. The scars.
His pants are around his ankles.
His hands are on her hips.
Not pushing.
Not stopping her.
Holding.
My stomach drops so hard it feels like falling off that rooftop.
The air disappears from my lungs.
For one long second, the only sound I hear is the distant hum of neon and the blood pounding in my ears like a drumline.
They both look up at the same time.
Carmen’s smile spreads slowly, satisfied.
A queen’s smile.
A winner’s smile.
Like she set this scene and waited for me to walk into it.
Diablo’s expression shifts fast. Shock first. Then fury, sharp and immediate, like he wants to tear the room apart and rewind time at the same time.
“Darling,” he says, and my name in his mouth lands like a bruise.
Carmen tilts her head, still smiling, eyes glittering like she’s drunk on control. “Ay, mira,” she purrs, soft and sweet. “She’s back.”
My throat burns.
I taste metal.
I don’t scream.
I don’t cry.
I don’t give her that.
I just stare long enough to let the image brand itself into me, because pretending I didn’t see it would be another kind of lie, and I’m done living in lies.
Diablo shifts like he’s going to sit up, like he’s going to throw her off his dick, like he’s going to fix it. His jaw is clenched so hard it looks painful.
Carmen’s hand slides across his chest like she’s petting a prize. “Relax, amor,” she murmurs, not even looking at him. Her eyes stay on me. “She’s just watching.”
Something cold settles into place inside me.
Not a breakdown.
A decision.
I take one slow step back.
Diablo’s voice snaps, darker. “Carmen. Get off.”
She doesn’t move. Not right away. She just smiles wider, like she loves hearing him use her name like a command, like she loves that even his anger proves she’s in the room with him.
I don’t wait for the rest.
I turn.
I walk away.
My legs feel steady even though my heart is trying to claw out of my chest. My hands don’t shake until I’m out in the hallway again, and even then I keep them at my sides like fists, nails digging into my palms to keep me anchored.
When I step back into the bar, Lady’s head snaps up immediately.
She takes one look at my face and her expression goes lethal.
“Baby,” she says, starting to rise.
I shake my head once.
Small. Final.
Because this time, I won’t be the girl begging to stay.
This time, I won’t be the one fighting for scraps while Carmen sits on Diablo’s dick.
I turn my chin up, swallow the ache like a shot of cheap rum, and keep my voice steady.
“I’m done,” I say.
And even though my chest feels like it’s splitting open, I don’t let it show.
Not here.
Not in front of them.