Chapter 15
Darling
The pin Rico sends glows on my screen like a bruise.
Lady is already moving when it comes through, keys in hand, mouth set, eyes sharp. She doesn’t ask if I’m sure. She knows I’m not. Sure is a luxury.
My throat feels tight as I stare at the location.
Little Havana.
But not the version tourists photograph for postcards.
This is the other side. The side where paint peels off buildings in tired strips and balconies sag like they’re thinking about giving up.
Window air conditioners hang crooked from rusted brackets like loose teeth ready to fall.
The whole block smells like mildew, grease, and regret that never quite leaves.
Lady refuses to let me go alone.
We argue in the marble lobby of her building for five full minutes while the night guard pretends not to listen.
“He said alone,” I hiss, gripping my phone like it might explode.
“And he’s a coward,” Lady snaps back, folding her arms across her chest. “Cowards lie.”
“He’ll hurt Disco.”
The words come out thinner than I want them to.
Lady’s jaw tightens. For a moment I see the calculation behind her eyes, the way she weighs risk like gamblers count cards.
“Okay,” she says finally. “I’m driving. You’re walking in alone. I’m not letting you disappear.”
“That’s not what he asked.”
“Fuck what he asked,” she says. “He stole your bird and your peace. He doesn’t get to set rules.”
I swallow hard. “Rules are what keep you alive.”
“So is breaking them at the right time,” she says.
In the end she drives me anyway.
But she parks two blocks away from the building, engine idling, headlights off. Streetlights flicker weakly along the sidewalk. Music drifts from a nearby bar. Someone laughs too loud, the sound bouncing off cracked pavement and graffiti walls.
Lady reaches across the console and grips my arm before I open the door.
“If you’re not back in twenty minutes,” she says quietly, “I’m calling Diablo.”
My stomach twists at the sound of his name.
Calling Diablo doesn’t mean help.
It means motorcycles. It means patched men. It means a 1% club showing up like a storm and leaving bodies when the rain stops. It means Rico doesn’t just get found. He gets erased.
“I’ll be back,” I promise.
Promises in Miami dissolve faster than ice in rum.
Lady’s nails tighten briefly on my arm. “Bebé,” she says, softer. “You come back. Don’t make me go to war in heels.”
I nod once and step out.
My heart pounds hard enough to make my teeth ache.
The hallway outside Rico’s apartment smells like stale smoke and sour laundry. The carpet under my heels is thin and stained in patches that look older than the building itself.
Somewhere behind one of the closed doors a television blares loudly. Spanish soap opera voices scream accusations about betrayal and lies.
Fitting.
Apartment 3B waits at the end of the hall. My hand trembles when I raise it to knock. The sound echoes too loud in the narrow corridor. There’s shuffling inside. Something bumps against furniture. Then a lock clicks. The door opens a few inches.
And there he is.
Rico looks worse than the last time I saw him.
Thinner. Cheekbones sharper beneath skin that’s lost its color. Dark circles bruise the space under his eyes. Scruff spreads unevenly across his jaw like he forgot what a razor is. He smells like sweat and cheap weed and something sour beneath it all.
But he is still Rico.
Still the man who once made me feel small inside my own body.
“Miss me?” he asks with that crooked grin.
My gaze moves past him immediately.
Disco’s old cage sits on a rickety kitchen table behind him.
My cockatoo flutters anxiously from perch to perch, crest half raised, feathers puffed, eyes bright with panic. He makes a sharp sound when he sees me, a mix of relief and outrage.
“?Mami!” he screeches.
My chest caves in.
“Let me see him,” I say, voice tight.
Rico pushes the door open wider.
The apartment is worse than the hallway.
Dirty dishes fill the sink. Beer cans lie crushed across the floor. The curtains are drawn so tight the room feels dim and claustrophobic, like sunlight has been banned.
Or like Rico is hiding from something.
He shuts the door behind me.
Locks it.
The click echoes through my chest.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” I say quietly.
He laughs under his breath.
“Relax. I’m not hitting you.”
The casual way he says it makes my skin crawl.
I take a step toward the table.
Disco chirps sharply, hopping along the perch, crest rising higher as he watches me like he’s trying to decide whether to bite Rico or scream louder.
“Hi, bebé,” I whisper, tears burning behind my eyes. “I’m here.”
Rico steps sideways, blocking my path.
“Not so fast.”
My head snaps up. “What do you want?”
He scratches at his jaw while glancing toward the window like someone might be watching from outside.
“They’re looking for me,” he mutters.
“Who?”
He gives me a look like I should already know.
“Your biker boyfriend and his little army.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
Rico smirks. “Sure he isn’t.”
My heart pounds harder.
“Why did you steal from them?” I ask.
His smile fades.
“I didn’t steal,” he says. “I borrowed. I did it to earn a patch.”
“With a different biker club?”
“Yeah,” he says, suddenly looking proud of himself.
“How’d that work out?”
He shrugs.
“You stole cash and product, Rico.”
His lips flatten.
“They’ve got plenty.”
“And now they want you dead.”
He shrugs, but his eyes flick toward the door again.
Paranoid.
Good.
“You think I’m scared of them?” he says.
“Yes,” I answer honestly.
Silence stretches between us.
Rico steps closer, lowering his voice like we’re sharing a secret.
“I need protection.”
I blink. “What?”
“I need leverage,” he corrects. “You’re close to him. Closer than anyone.”
“I’m not.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
His gaze darkens as he studies my face like he’s looking for a crack to pry open.
“I’ve seen the pictures,” he says. “The yacht. The helicopter.”
My stomach drops.
Pictures.
That wasn’t random.
That was eyes.
That was money.
And I know exactly the kind of woman who buys eyes. Carmen.
My throat tightens. “You’ve been watching me?”
“Everyone’s watching you,” he replies. “You’re the only thing that rattles Diablo.”
The words sink slowly into my chest, cold and heavy.
“He sends you gifts,” Rico continues, pacing the cramped kitchen. “He shows up on a bike like some telenovela hero. He punches waiters for looking at you.”
“He always had a temper,” I say, and my voice sounds far away.
“And you always had power over him.”
My skin prickles.
“I need dirt,” Rico says suddenly. “He has enemies.”
I stare at him. “What kind of dirt?”
“Information,” he says. “Where he keeps his cash. Who he meets with. What deals he’s making.”
“You want me to spy.”
“I want you to survive,” he snaps. “Because if I go down, I’m taking you with me.”
Disco lets out a furious shriek and flaps hard against the cage bars.
“?No!” he screams. “?Ay!”
Rico spins around and slams his hand against the table.
The cage rattles violently.
Disco flutters inside, terrified, crest slicked down now, body tight and shaking.
I lunge forward.
“Don’t you touch him!”
Rico grabs the cage door and yanks it halfway open.
My heart stops.
“Try me,” he says softly.
Disco scrambles backward, wings fluttering in panic.
“If you don’t help me,” Rico continues in a whisper, “I’ll snap his neck and have rotisserie.”
My vision flashes red.
“You’re sick,” I breathe.
“Maybe,” he says calmly. “But I’m not stupid.”
He reaches out suddenly and grabs my wrist.
Hard.
My breath catches.
Old memories rush back. Fingers digging into skin. The ache in my ribs. His voice telling me I was lucky he wanted me.
“Let me go,” I say evenly.
“You still care about him?” Rico asks, leaning closer. His breath smells like beer. “You still spread your legs for that biker?”
The words hit like filth.
My stomach turns, and beneath the disgust a flicker of memory sparks anyway. Diablo’s hands at my waist. His voice in my ear. The way my body still reacts when I don’t want it to.
Rico smiles like he can smell it on me.
I stay silent.
His grip tightens.
“You think he’d choose you over his little princess?” he sneers. “You’re just la sancha with a sob story.”
Heat floods my face.
“You were never my side chick, Ana… Darling. I think you liked it when I hit you. I know you liked it when I slapped your pussy.”
I yank my wrist free and shove him hard.
Rico stumbles back a step, surprise flashing across his face.
“I’m not scared of you anymore,” I say.
His eyes narrow.
“You should be.”
He lunges forward again and grabs my upper arm hard enough to bruise. Pain shoots through my shoulder. Something inside me snaps. I slam my heel down onto his foot as hard as I can. He shouts, loud and ugly. I shove him backward and sprint for the door.
For a split second his fingers catch my hair, yanking painfully before I twist free.
“Don’t forget!” he shouts after me. “Disco stays with me until I get what I want! And we won’t be here much longer. Don’t think of sending your boyfriend.”
I wrench the door open and bolt into the hallway.
My heart pounds so violently I taste metal.
I don’t stop running until I burst out into the humid Miami night.
Lady’s SUV screeches up to the curb before I even reach the sidewalk. She must’ve been rolling the block. She jumps out immediately.
“You okay?” she demands, scanning my face and arms.
I nod, even though my whole body is shaking.
“Where’s Disco?” she asks.
“With him,” I whisper.
Lady swears under her breath. “Cono.”
“What did he want?” she asks, already guiding me toward the passenger door like she’s moving a wounded soldier.
“Information.”
Her expression goes still.
“On who?”
“You know who.”
Neither of us says Diablo’s name.
We sit in silence for a long moment while the city buzzes around us. Music drifts from the bar. A couple argues loudly in Spanish across the street. A scooter zips by like it has somewhere to be.
The world keeps moving like my life didn’t just crack open.
“He said they’re looking for him,” I murmur.
“They are,” Lady replies.
“And if I tell Diablo, he’ll kill him.”
“Yes.”
“And if I don’t,” I say quietly, voice breaking, “Rico kills Disco.”
Lady grips the steering wheel tight enough her knuckles go white.
“You can’t handle this alone,” she says.
I stare out the windshield, breathing hard, trying not to fall apart.
Vice Ink sits somewhere across the city like a dark cathedral.
Carmen’s territory.
Diablo’s kingdom.
If I walk back in there, I’m choosing a side.
If I don’t, I’m gambling with Disco’s life.
My throat tightens.
I swallow hard.
“Take me to Vice Ink.”
Lady glances at me.
“You sure?”
“No,” I admit softly. “But I’m done being scared.”
Lady nods once, sharp.
“Good,” she says. “Because once you walk in, bebé… you don’t get to pretend you’re not in it.”
The SUV pulls into traffic.
As we drive, Miami feels sharper somehow. Louder. Like the city itself knows something ugly just turned personal.
And this time it isn’t about love.
It’s about survival.