“She’s not going anywhere.”
Miami night hits my face as Diablo carries me out, salt air and distant sirens and neon buzzing from a corner store sign like a warning. I blink against tears and feel my cheek throb, my wrists burn, my heart ache in a way that doesn’t make sense.
I look up at Diablo and my voice comes out small.
“You shot him.”
His gaze drops to mine and for a second his voice softens, just a little.
“I’d do worse,” he says. “For you. Hopefully he dies.”
The words sink in deeper than they should.
It would be almost romantic if it wasn’t true in the most terrifying way.
As we hit the sidewalk, the streetlight makes everything look too bright, too exposed, like the world wants witnesses.
That’s when I see it.
Across the street, half-hidden in shadow, a sleek black car parked too still for this neighborhood. The window is cracked just enough to show the glint of a face inside.
Watching like she’s taking notes.
Carmen.
My stomach turns cold. My fingers tighten in Diablo’s cut.
He doesn’t look over there, or maybe he does and refuses to give her the satisfaction, but I see her, and she sees me.
Miami hums around us, cars passing, music drifting, a neighbor’s TV blaring some late-night telenovela like the world isn’t on fire.
It’s not.
Rico wasn’t the only one waiting for me tonight.
And I understand it in a sick clear flash as Diablo carries me toward the motorcycles.
This isn’t just a love story.
It’s not just a breakup.
It’s not just a bird and a bruised cheek.
It’s territory.
And Carmen just drew a line in blood.
Chapter 19
Darling
The hospital is too bright and too cold, like somebody decided pain should come with fluorescent punishment.
Every sound bounces. Sneakers squeak on waxed floors. A monitor beeps somewhere down the hall like a heartbeat that is not mine. The TV in the corner plays local news with the volume low, but the anchors’ perfect smiles still crawl under my skin, the way Miami pretends blood is just another weather report.
I am wrapped in a thin blanket that does not do a damn thing, sitting on a plastic chair that feels designed to punish you for surviving. My wrists are bandaged where the zip ties bit into skin, and my cheek is swollen, warm and sore every time I breathe too deep. They made me rinse my mouth because I had blood in it, and they asked questions like I was not still shaking, like my body did not just learn a new definition of trapped.
Name. Date of birth. Do you feel safe at home?
