Chapter 10
Diablo
The moment she turns away from the bedroom door, something inside my chest tears loose.
She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t throw anything or make a scene the way most women would if they walked in on something like that. She simply turns on her heel and starts walking down the hallway, back straight, steps sharp against the hardwood.
And that silence is worse than any sound she could make.
It isn’t just anger.
“Darling,” I bark, grabbing Carmen by the hips and hauling her off me so hard she stumbles back across the mattress, my pants still tangled at my ankles.
I’m still inside the mess of it, breath wrecked, skin hot, rage detonating the second I see Darling’s face.
My blood is still hot from the rooftop. Adrenaline still buzzing in my bones. I can still hear the gunshots, still feel Darling’s body against mine when I dragged her down behind cover. And now this.
Carmen slides off the bed slowly, controlled and deliberate, like she expected this exact moment. She smooths her hair down her back and adjusts her clothes as if nothing unusual just happened. Her perfume hangs in my room. There’s the faintest curve at the corner of her mouth.
“You should go after her,” she says coolly, watching me with calculating eyes. “Before she embarrasses herself.”
“Don’t talk about her like she’s entertainment,” I growl.
Carmen’s gaze flicks over my face. She doesn’t look afraid. She looks satisfied.
Like she got exactly what she came for.
I’m already moving.
The hallway outside my bedroom is dark. Vice Ink hums under us, the building never fully quiet even when the party dies. Somewhere downstairs a door slams. Somewhere outside Miami keeps sweating and buzzing like it doesn’t care what it costs.
Darling’s heels strike ahead of me in sharp, furious bursts as she heads toward the stairs.
She is walking too fast.
Like she’s trying to outrun something that has been chasing her for years.
“Darling, espera,” I call, because English doesn’t cut it right now. Nothing cuts it right now.
She doesn’t slow.
I catch her out in the bar and grab her wrist before she can disappear with her friend.
She jerks hard against my grip.
“Let me go.”
“Not like this.”
She spins to face me and the look in her eyes hits harder than any punch. Makeup still perfect. Hair still glossy. Dress still screaming money and South Beach.
But her eyes are bright and furious, and her mouth trembles with a rage she refuses to let spill over.
“You had her in your bed,” she says quietly.
The quiet in her voice cuts deeper than if she had screamed.
“Don’t you fucking touch me.”
“It wasn’t what it looked like,” I say.
She lets out a laugh that sounds broken and vicious at the same time.
“She was straddling you.”
“She walked in.”
“She walked in,” she repeats, voice sharpening, “or she climbed on?”
The bar’s silent around us. Shady and his woman pretend to check their phones, but their posture is wrong. Too still. Too attentive. Patched men don’t stare at the president’s business, but they see everything anyway.
A prospect stands frozen near the railing, eyes down, trying to disappear into the wall like he knows better.
Nobody moves.
Nobody steps in.
In this life, you don’t get between the president and the woman he’s trying not to lose.
I don’t give a damn who’s watching.
I drag her down the hallway toward my office stairs and shove the door open hard enough that it slams against the wall.
She stumbles inside and turns just as I shut the door behind us.
The lock clicks.
Her eyes snap to it immediately.
Her chest rises and falls faster.
“You don’t get to trap me,” she says.
“I’m not trapping you.”
“You just locked the door.”
“To keep everyone else out,” I bite back. “So they can’t watch you fall apart like it’s a show.”
She shoves past me and storms toward the desk. My desk. Papers scatter when her arm sweeps across the surface. Invoices slide off the edge and flutter across the floor like dead birds. Club books. Cash-run receipts. The boring parts of power.
A crystal ashtray tumbles down after them and explodes into glittering shards.
She stares at the broken pieces for half a second.
“Good,” she mutters. “Now it looks how it feels.”
I don’t move.
I just watch her unravel.
She grabs a framed photo from the bookshelf, the one taken outside Vice Ink when I patched in years ago. My brothers lined up in cuts, blood still fresh in the air, my arm slung over Rafael’s shoulder like we thought the world could never touch us.
She hurls it across the room.
The glass cracks when it hits the wall and drops to the floor with a hollow thud.
“You said you loved me,” she spits.
“I do.”
“You said she was politics.”
“She is.”
“Politics don’t ride you in your own bed.”
The words land low and hard.
She reaches for a bottle of rum from the shelf behind the desk and throws it with everything she has.
It shatters against the far wall in a burst of amber and glass.
Liquor scent fills the room, sharp and hot, mixing with the lingering humidity.
“Three years,” she says, voice shaking now. “Three years of you living with your ring on her finger while Rico beat me. And you think I’m supposed to what? Smile and wait while you still fuck her?”
I cross the room in two strides and grab her shoulders before she can reach for something else.
“Stop.”
She fights me instantly.
Her nails dig into my forearms as she twists against my grip.
Fury pours off her in waves so strong I can almost feel it in my teeth.
Her body is hot under my hands, and the worst part is my body notices.
The way she fits. The way she smells like coconut and ocean wind under tonight’s expensive champagne.
All I can feel is the ghost of my mouth on hers.
“Don’t touch me,” she snaps.
“Stop breaking my shit.”
“Maybe I should break you.”
Something dark flashes through me.
I tighten my grip just enough to hold her still, not hurting, just containing. A restraint I learned the hard way. The kind of restraint that keeps me from becoming the thing she’s afraid of.
Her breathing stutters.
Then she says it.
“You’re just like him.”
The room goes cold.
The city outside keeps humming, but in here everything freezes.
“What did you say?” I ask, voice low.
“Rico,” she throws back. “You think because you don’t use your fists it’s different? You control everything. You lock doors. You decide where I live. You think because you say carino it makes it sweet.”
My hands flex on her shoulders.
Heat spikes behind my eyes, vicious and immediate.
“Don’t you fucking compare me to him,” I growl. “No me compares a ese cabrón.”
Her chin lifts, stubborn as ever.
“What will you do? Hit me?” she snaps.
My heart feels like it’s being crushed.
“You think I’d ever lay a hand on you?” I ask.
“You’re laying hands on me right now.”
I let go immediately, like the words burned.
She steps back like I did burn her.
And that is what guts me.
I would rather she slapped me. I would rather she screamed. This fear is a knife to my throat.
“I would kill for you,” I say quietly.
“You already chose someone else.”
“Carmen is strategy.”
“She’s your fiancée.”
“She’s leverage.”
She laughs bitterly, shaking her head. “So you’re using her.”
I don’t answer.
Because she is not wrong.
And because the truth sounds ugly in my mouth.
“You’re using her and you used me,” Darling continues. “You pushed me out like trash when it suited you.”
“I pushed you out to keep you alive.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
I run a hand through my hair and pace away from her, forcing space between us so I don’t reach for her again.
The Miami night presses through the windows, damp heat and distant sirens and a bass line from somewhere down the block that won’t die, reminding me of what’s outside these walls. No peace for a man like me.
“You think I wanted that deal?” I snap, turning back. “You think I wanted her in my bed?”
Her eyes flash.
“So she wasn’t supposed to be there?”
“She came in uninvited,” I say. “She was already here when we got back. Waiting. Because the council. Because investors. Because she never stops moving pieces.”
“And you didn’t stop her,” Darling says, voice like broken glass.
The words hit me in the ribs.
My temper flares, then crashes into guilt.
Because I should’ve thrown Carmen out.
Because I should’ve locked my door.
Because I should’ve known she wanted Darling to see.
“You stormed out,” I bite, and I hate that it comes out sharp. “You left me standing there like I was the villain. You left me hard. What the fuck did you expect?”
Her mouth goes tight.
“I expected you not to crawl back to her the second I walked away.”
The silence after that feels thick enough to choke on.
Outside, Miami keeps humming like it doesn’t care. Inside, my whole world tilts.
“You don’t get to push me away and be territorial both,” I say finally, quieter now, but no less dangerous. “Every move I make is to keep this club breathing.”
“And where do I fall in that?” she demands.
I stare at her.
At the woman who makes me weak with one look.
At the woman whose bruises I can’t forget.
At the woman who still makes my hands ache to touch and my chest ache to protect.
“You’re the only thing that makes me weak,” I say.
The truth sits heavy between us.
Her eyes soften for half a second.
Then the wall slams back up.
“You’re engaged,” she says. “You don’t get to love me and sleep with her.”
I don’t deny it.
Because denying it would be a lie.
“You think I enjoy this?” I growl. “You think I wake up proud of it?”
“You looked real comfortable,” she says, and her voice is flat in the way that means she’s cutting herself off from feeling anything at all.
I slam my fist down on the desk.
Wood splinters under my hand.
She doesn’t even flinch.
That is what destroys me.
“You experienced my world tonight,” I say, voice shaking with anger I can barely keep contained. “A rival opened fire. You could’ve been killed.”
“And you could have chosen me.”
The words land harder than any bullet.
I stare at her. At the woman who used to laugh at my stupid jokes and kiss the scar on my knuckle like it mattered.
My chest aches.
“You want out?” I ask finally.
She nods once.
Sharp.
“Then go home,” I snap, and I hate myself for it the second it leaves my mouth. “Go back to your fancy rooftop clubs and your DJ friend and your cockatiel.”
“Cockatoo,” she corrects automatically, and it’s so small and stubborn it almost breaks me.
I see it then, the flicker in her face, fast as a blink.
Pain.
She hides it immediately.
“That’s the plan,” she says.
“Fine.”
We stand there breathing hard.
Close enough to touch.
Too far apart to reach.
A muffled knock hits the office door once, cautious.
“Prez?” Vice’s voice, low.
“Stay the fuck out,” I bark without looking away from Darling.
Silence.
Then footsteps retreat, because the club understands boundaries even when we’re burning.
I step back first.
Because if I take one step forward, I’ll grab her again.
And if I grab her again, she’ll see Rico in my hands.
“Go home then,” I say, and the words taste like rust.
She doesn’t hesitate.
She walks to the door, unlocks it, and pulls it open.
Hallway light spills into the office.
She steps out without looking back.
The door shuts behind her.
The room goes silent.
Outside, Miami keeps humming like nothing just shattered.
But I know better.
Because this time she didn’t just leave angry.
She left done.
And I don’t know if I can drag her back from that.