Chapter 1
Diablo
Blood smells different in Miami.
It’s sweeter here. Heavier. Like the city grabs hold of it and refuses to let it drain away. The humidity presses the stink into everything, concrete, leather and skin, turning metallic at the back of my throat. Miami lets nothing go easily. Not heat. Not bodies. Not power.
Not blood.
The alley behind Vice Ink is slick with it, pooling in the cracks of concrete, running toward the gutter like it knows exactly where it belongs. Neon from the shop sign flickers against the wet ground, red and blue reflections smeared like bruises across the pavement.
Our president is on the ground.
Rafael Solano. The man who raised me in this club. The man who handed me my first patch and told me loyalty mattered more than fear. The man who taught me Saints Outlaws don’t beg and don’t break, no matter how bad it gets.
Rafael Solano doesn’t look like the man who built the Saints Outlaws MC into something Miami feared. His eyes are open, staring at nothing, rain mixing with the blood soaking his cut. His mouth hangs slightly open, like he tried to say something and ran out of time. The sight punches straightthrough my chest and hollows something out that I didn’t know could still crack.
Three shots. Clean. Professional.
Not meant to miss.
Carmen is screaming somewhere behind me, her voice sharp and broken, cutting through the chaos. It scrapes against my skull, raw and desperate, but I don’t turn. Brothers shout orders. Guns come out. Bikes roar to life as men scatter to lock down the perimeter. Miami reacts fast when blood hits the ground. Everyone knows what a dead president means, and nobody wants to be caught flat-footed when the sharks start circling.
I kneel anyway.
“Prez,” I say, even though I know better. Even though the word’s already past tense. I press my hand to his chest, feel nothing but cooling flesh beneath my palm, the life already gone.
He’s gone.
The life that used to fill every room he walked into gone in an instant. All that’s left is a crushing silence.
Rafael Solano is dead.
Now he’s bleeding behind his own damn shop.
The Saints Outlaws don’t fall apart quietly.
Within an hour, Miami knows something shifted. You can feel it in the air, the way phones start ringing nonstop, the way deals stall and rivals get curious. Every enemy we ever made suddenly remembers our name and starts wondering if tonight’s the night to test us.
By midnight, the clubhouse is full and silent. Too many men holding their breath at once. The usual noise is gone. Nolaughter. No music. Smoke hangs in the air, thick and stale, untouched as men move slow when they move at all.
Saints Outlaws fill every inch of Vice Ink, the old church turned part tattoo shop and all biker club, leather cuts lining the walls while men crowd around the scarred pews that have seen more blood deals than prayers.
Low voices drift through the room.
Whispers.
“He was closest to Rafael.”
“Vice could take it.”
“Miami won’t follow anyone weak.”
A chair scrapes softly across the floor while someone mutters the club will fracture before the week ends. Another brother swears anyone who moves against the Saints tonight dies before sunrise.
The murmurs stop the moment I stand.
Every biker in the room turns. Every biker looks to me. Not because I want the crown. Because I already wear the damn thing.
