Leather. Ink. Violence barely contained.
The room goes quiet as one man steps forward, tall and hard with a scar splitting his eyebrow.
“Darling Rivera.”
Every muscle in my body locks.
“Yes.”
“Come with us.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“That’s not what this is about.”
My eyes search the bar for Rico even though I already know the truth.
He isn’t here. The realization lands like a punch to the chest. The motorcycle. Rico stole from them. And left me behind to pay for it.
When I weakly say I need to close out my tabs, the scarred biker almost smiles.
“You won’t have this job come morning.”
Hands close around my arms. Not rough. Not gentle either.
Final.
Patrons watch with wide frightened eyes while Fernan half rises from his stool like he might say something.
Then he sees the Saints Outlaws patch.
Slowly he sits back down.
Nobody stops them.
They guide me outside into the thick Miami heat where a black SUV waits with its door open. I’m pushed inside and when I ask what Rico stole, no one answers.
The city flashes past the windows in neon streaks as we drive through clubs, churches, and rows of palm trees. Miami wraps itself around the night like a beautiful lie hiding a rotten core.
Then I see it.
Vice Ink.
The SUV stops.
They pull me inside.
And there he is.
Diablo Vargas stands in the center of the room like the devil himself, dark eyes locked on me like I never left at all.
My knees almost give out.
Because whatever Rico stole…
Whatever debt he ran from…
Whatever mess he left behind…
