A knock hits the door, sharp and urgent.
Magic’s voice cuts through the tension like a blade. “Prez. You need to see this. Now.”
Diablo stills. His eyes flick to the door, then back to me like he hates leaving me for even a second.
He stands with a tight exhale. “Stay right here.”
“You mean it this time?” I ask, and I hate the way my voice sounds like it wants to trust him.
His gaze locks on mine. “Yeah. I mean it.”
He opens the door. Magic is there with a phone in his hand, face grim.
Diablo takes it and scans whatever is on the screen, and his expression goes hard.
“What,” I whisper, dread crawling up my spine.
Diablo’s voice comes out low and lethal. “Carmen.”
He turns the phone so I can see.
A notification from a local account. A photo that looks like it was taken through a crack in a car window.
Diablo carrying me out of my apartment, my face pressed to his cut, my bandaged wrists visible, his colors bright as a target.
SAINTS OUTLAWS PRESIDENT SEEN WITH MYSTERY WOMAN AFTER SHOOTING. RUMORS ROCK LITTLE HAVANA.
My hands start shaking again like my body doesn’t know the danger ever ended.
The hospital suddenly feels less like a safe place and more like a stage.
Carmen did not come here to check on anyone.
She came to make sure Miami watched.
And Miami never watches without taking something.
Miami doesn’t let you heal quietly.
Even the hospital parking garage hums, fluorescent lights flickering overhead while engines cough and idle and the air tastes like exhaust and rain that never fully rinses the streets clean. Diablo’s hand stays at the small of my back as he guides me toward the SUV, palm warm through my thin shirt, steady the way a wall is steady when you are the one shaking.
Vice is in the driver’s seat, eyes forward. Magic is outside for half a second, scanning, then he shuts the door with a final thud like he is sealing us in.
Nobody talks about the posts.
Nobody talks about Carmen’s smile.
Nobody talks about the way my face is already somebody’s content.
The SUV rolls out and Miami slides past in smeared color, palms and billboards and wet pavement shining under streetlights. Reggaeton rattles from a car at a light, bass heavy enough to vibrate the bones.
Diablo’s thumb rubs the inside of my arm above my wrist, slow, like he is trying to calm tremors out of my blood.
“You’re breathing like you’re running,” he murmurs.
“I’m fine,” I lie, because I hate being seen this way.
He makes a sharp exhale that means he is not buying it. His fingers travel to my bandage and stop there, careful, like he is afraid of hurting me worse.
