Chapter 16
Darling
Vice Ink looks the same from the outside, like it never changes no matter how many people bleed inside it. Neon buzzes in the old church window, throwing pink and blue stains across the sidewalk like Miami can’t help being loud. But it feels different walking toward it tonight.
It feels like stepping onto a battlefield with nothing but my pride and a busted heart for armor.
Lady idles at the curb in her SUV, engine purring soft, headlights washing over cracked pavement and Saints bikes like a spotlight. She squeezes my hand before I get out, nails sharp against my knuckles.
“You want me to come in?”
I glance at the door and my throat constricts like I swallowed grit. I can still see Rico’s apartment when I blink, the cage rattling, Disco’s frantic fluttering, Rico’s grin like he owned my fear. I can still hear his voice in my ear, sweet and cruel, promising to eat my Disco bird.
“This is between me and them,” I say, even though that isn’t true.
Lady’s mouth twists. “And her.”
Yeah. And her.
Lady leans closer, voice dropping low like she’s giving a blessing before a funeral. “If you start to feel stupid, baby, remember this. You’re not asking permission. You’re walking in there because you have a reason.”
“I know,” I whisper, even as my stomach rolls.
Her eyes scan my face, softening for half a second. “If he so much as breathes wrong at you, I’m coming through that door like a hurricane.”
I almost smile. Almost. “That’ll go over great with the Saints Outlaws.”
Lady snorts. “They’ll live. Dale.”
I step out into the night and heat hits me like a hand against my back, pushing. My dress sticks to my thighs the second I move. I cross the sidewalk and grip the door handle, palm already slick. For a moment I pause, listening.
Inside, the bass dips, then surges, like the building is breathing.
I push the door open.
The smell hits first, potent and familiar. Ink and disinfectant from the tattoo stations mixed with stale rum and fresh cigar smoke. Anyone can come in the front. But the back is a different story. The bouncer wears a cut and instantly waves me through because I’m a woman in heels.
The bar’s packed with bodies, with voices, with the low undercurrent of violence that always hums under Saints Outlaws laughter. It’s crowded tonight, not like a party, more like a hive that’s been disturbed.
Men in cuts lean in tight circles, heads close, voices low.
Prospects move fast, eyes alert, clearing glasses, running bottles, acting busy so nobody notices how tense the room is.
A few women stand near the bar watching everything without pretending they aren’t, lashes long, lips glossy, looking bored but calculating.
When I step inside, the room doesn’t stop.
It dips.
Like a wave pulling back before it breaks. Heads turn. Eyes track me. Not curious eyes. Not friendly ones. Judging. Measuring.
The Saints know me now, and that’s the problem.
Not as collateral damage. Not as a ghost from Diablo’s past.
As a complication.
As a weakness.
As a spark that could set the whole damn place on fire.
My pulse pounds hard, but I keep my face steady and my spine straight. I refuse to shrink. I’ve done enough shrinking for one lifetime.
I make it three steps before she blocks my path.
Carmen Solano doesn’t rush. She doesn’t need to.
She’s already positioned where she wants to be, directly in my way, like she’s been waiting for the moment the door opens.
She looks like she stepped out of a glossy magazine spread and into this filthy church of criminals without a single hair out of place.
Cream silk blouse tucked into high-waisted trousers that probably cost more than my rent.
Heels that don’t belong on concrete floors but still command them.
Hair sleek down her back, shiny enough to reflect neon.
Makeup soft and pretty, designed to make her look innocent until you get close enough to see the steel behind her eyes.
Her lips are painted a quiet red that makes you think of blood only if you already know what blood looks like.
“Darling Rivera,” she says, calm as a person ordering dessert. “You don’t get to just walk in here whenever you feel like it.”
Her voice isn’t loud.
It doesn’t need to be.
“This isn’t your house,” I reply, keeping my tone even though rage scratches behind my teeth.
Her gaze flickers over my face like she’s examining a scratch on a car door. “It will be.”
There it is.
Not jealousy.
Ownership.
Wrapped in legacy and politics and the Solano name.
I force my lungs to keep working. “I need to see him.”
“He’s busy,” she answers, mouth curving like she enjoys saying it.
“With what?” I ask. “Damage control? Or rehearsal for your little wedding?”
Her jaw tightens slightly, so subtle most people wouldn’t catch it. But I’ve watched her long enough to know every crack matters.
“You have no idea what you’ve done to him,” she says softly.
I laugh under my breath, sharp and ugly. “I’ve done?”
“He hasn’t slept properly in weeks,” Carmen continues, voice smooth, conversational, like she’s gossiping with a friend. “He’s been wrecked over you. Snapping at his own men. Making reckless decisions.”
My heart stutters like it still belongs to him, like it forgets my pride exists.
Carmen sees the microsecond shift in my face and lets herself smile, faint and satisfied.
“You’re destabilizing him,” she says, leaning closer by a fraction. “You’re going to get him killed. And that makes you dangerous.”
“Or maybe,” I fire back, my voice tightening, “I’m the only thing in his life that’s real.”
The space around us changes.
Conversations stall mid-sentence. A prospect pauses with a tray of shot glasses, eyes flicking between us like he wants front-row seats.
Carmen doesn’t look away. She likes an audience. She likes control. She likes knowing the room is listening.
“You think he’ll choose you over legacy?” she asks quietly. “Over my bloodline? Over the Solano name that keeps this club protected when the city starts sniffing around?”
“You’re not married,” I say, letting the words cut.
Her eyes go sharp, a flash of real emotion crossing her face before she smooths it away. “Marriage is strategic,” she replies. “Love is weakness.”
“You don’t even love him?” I laugh out. “You sure about that?” I ask, because her voice is too steady for a woman who doesn’t care.
“I love him more than you could ever understand, la puta.” Her gaze drifts over me again, slow this time. Not checking bruises. Checking cracks. “You look tired,” she murmurs. “Has the fantasy worn off?”
Heat crawls up my spine and I hate that she can smell weakness like a dog smells fear.
“I’m not here for you,” I say.
“You’re always here because of me,” she corrects, and the way she says it makes my skin crawl. Like I’m not a person. Just a symptom.
The image of my apartment hits me hard, the shredded cushions, the open fridge, the empty cage tipped sideways like a joke. I taste copper again, not from blood, from panic.
My mouth moves before caution can stop it.
“Did you break into my apartment?”
The question slices through the room.
Heads turn fully now. A few Saints shift their stance, tension rising like heat.
Carmen doesn’t blink. “Excuse me?”
“White rose,” I say, locking my gaze on hers. “Cute touch.”
For the first time something changes in her eyes.
Not guilt.
Not fear.
Annoyance.
Like I moved a piece on the board she didn’t expect me to reach.
She studies me the way you study an enemy you didn’t plan for. “If I wanted to destroy you,” she says calmly, “you wouldn’t be standing here.”
I step closer. “My bird was taken,” I say, voice tight. “My apartment trashed. The gifts gone.”
“The gifts?” Carmen repeats lightly, making it sound like I’m whining about a missing handbag. “How tragic.”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“And you think I’d risk the club’s reputation over petty jealousy?” she asks, voice sweet while her eyes sharpen.
“Yes.”
It slips out blunt and unpretty.
Her smile vanishes.
The air shifts.
Carmen’s face goes blank in a way that’s almost scarier than anger. “You think I give a damn about you?” she asks.
“You pretend you don’t care too much,” I shoot back.
She doesn’t warn me.
She swings.
Her fist connects with my cheek fast and clean, crack echoing through the clubhouse like a gunshot. Pain explodes along my jaw, bright and immediate. I taste copper as my teeth cut the inside of my lip.
I stagger back a step, head snapping to the side.
For half a second the room blurs and all I hear is bass thumping in the walls and my blood rushing in my ears.
Then something hot floods my veins.
I lunge.
No thinking. No planning.
My hands tangle in her perfect hair and I yank hard enough to make her gasp. We crash into a table, bottles breaking, chairs scraping. Someone shouts, but it’s distant, muffled by the roar building in my chest.
Carmen’s nails dig into my forearm, sharp and angry. She tries to pull back, but I shove her, driving her into the wall. Her silk blouse wrinkles. Her lipstick smears. The sight of her perfection cracking makes something savage in me smile.
“You don’t get to touch my life,” I spit, voice shaking with rage.
“And you are forbidden to touch my fiancé,” she hisses back, eyes blazing now, the mask gone.
We go down in a mess of silk and fury, her knee hitting my hip, my shoulder slamming the floor. Concrete is cold and gritty under my palm, smelling faintly like spilled beer. Carmen’s breath comes fast and she tries to rake her nails down my face.
I catch her wrist and twist, not enough to break it, just enough to remind her I’m not delicate. Not easy. Not hers to slap into place.
Strong hands clamp around my arms from behind.
Another set grabs Carmen, hauling her upright.
“Break it up!” someone barks.
“Enough!” another voice shouts, closer.