“Diablo.”
His shoulders tense and he looks at me, eyes wild but leashed, like he’s holding the devil by the throat.
Tears spill because my body can’t keep pretending it’s iron.
“Please,” I whisper.
Rico coughs, trying to laugh, but it turns into pain. “See?” he wheezes. “She don’t want you to. She don’t want you dirty.”
Saints fill my apartment behind Diablo, moving like a machine.
Magic.
Vice.
Six.
Shady.
Faces hard.
Hands steady.
They look like they’d finish this without blinking.
Diablo doesn’t move for a beat. The gun stays pointed, jaw flexing like he’s grinding a decision down to dust.
Then he lowers the barrel just slightly and takes a step away from Rico.
Not because Rico deserves it. Because I asked. Rico tries to crawl, smearing blood across my tile. He looks like a worm.
Diablo doesn’t look at him again.
He crosses the room in two strides and drops to his knees in front of me like I’m the only thing that matters.
His hands are gentle as he cuts the zip ties, careful like he’s terrified of hurting me worse. Plastic snaps. Blood rushes back into my fingers with pins-and-needles pain sharp enough to make me gasp.
He frees my ankles next.
The second I’m loose my body folds forward like my bones forgot how to hold me up.
Diablo catches me.
Hard.
Possessive.
Shaking like he’s the one who got shot.
I bury my face in his cut and inhale leather and smoke and salt air.
I’m sobbing before I can stop it, whole body trembling like it’s finally allowed to feel what it’s been holding back.
Disco screams again and I jerk, trying to turn.
“I got him,” Magic says, voice calmer than it should be.
I hear the cage lift. Magic is holding Disco now, moving him away from Rico, away from blood, away from the gun.
