Diablo always collects.
And I don’t know if I’ll survive the price.
Chapter 3
Diablo
Three years later, Miami still tastes like blood and regret.
I rule it now. The Saints Outlaws MC. Every sinner who walks through my door. Every vice with a price tag. I wear the crown they handed me the night Rafael Solano died, and it fits like a curse, heavy as a wet cut in August heat. Power, money, women. None of it fills the space she left behind, not even on nights when the clubhouse is loud and the liquor is flowing and I could have anything I want with a snap of my fingers.
Darling Rivera should be a memory by now. A name that fades. A face I stop seeing in the dark.
But the thought of her keeps me up at night.
It’s not the only thing.
Miami doesn’t sleep. It sweats. It moves like it’s got somewhere to be and a warrant it’s running from. It keeps grinding, keeps flexing, keeps daring you to blink first, and I learned the hard way that if you blink in this city, you end up dead or broke or owned.
Even at midnight, the heat clings like a bad decision, thick and sticky, crawling under my cut and soaking into the ink on my skin. Neon bleeds down the street outside Vice Ink, palm trees swaying like they know secrets, bass from a reggaeton spot two blocks down rattling the windows. The airis wet and electric, full of exhaust, ocean, cologne, and cheap perfume drifting in from tourists who think they came here to get wild, not realizing they’re walking through a place where men disappear for less.
Tourists think Miami is beaches and bodies and plastic smiles.
They don’t see the blood under the glow. They don’t see the way a corner can turn into a grave if you say the wrong thing to the wrong man. They don’t hear the hush that hits when a patched crew rolls by and every civilian suddenly remembers they got somewhere else to be.
Vice Ink is mine. Home base. Old church turned clubhouse. Sanctuary when we need it. Shopfront when we don’t. The front smells like antiseptic and ozone, sharp and clean, the way you want your ink room to smell. But the back breathes smoke, whiskey, sweat, and old leather.
Out front needles hum like angry bees. Fresh ink shines under the lights. Men sit in wooden pews trying to act hard while their skin gets carved into art they’ll wear to the grave.
Outside bikes line the alley like predators at rest, chrome catching neon, engines ticking as they cool. A prospect wipes down a Harley like his life depends on it, because in this club, it does.
My brothers fill the space with low laughter and loud mouths. Curses in Spanish and English. Spanglish that cuts like a knife and lands like a joke. The clink of bottles. Dominoes slapping on a table in the corner like small gunshots. The crack of a pool break like a real one.
Patches everywhere. My cut on my back like a second skin. Top rocker. Bottom rocker. The center patch that makes men’s faces change when they see it, even the ones who pretendthey don’t know. They know. Everybody in the 305 knows. Saints Outlaws ain’t a name you say like it’s a compliment. It’s a fucking warning.
I stand at the bar built from a salvaged church pew, fingers wrapped around a glass of rum I haven’t touched. The wood still bears faint carvings from whatever saint used to watch over it. Now it’s soaked in spilled liquor and lies and old sins, and it fits us just fine. Irony tastes sweet in this city, and I learned a long time ago that saints don’t protect men like me.
They call me Diablo for a reason.
I don’t flinch when men bleed. I don’t hesitate when decisions cost lives. When the last president died, gunned down in a drive-by meant for someone else, the club almost fractured overnight.
Miami doesn’t wait for grief. It eats weakness alive, spits it out, and then comes back for seconds. The day Rafael dropped, half the city started sniffing around like we were wounded. Like we were meat. Rival crews. Street boys trying to make a name. Hustlers who’d never look a patched man in the eye suddenly had opinions. Even the cops got brave, cruising slow like they didn’t remember who they were dealing with.
Three years ago, I took the seat because someone had to. Because I was already doing the work. Because blood respects blood. Because in this life, you either hold the knife or you end up under it.
And because the deal demanded it.
My gaze flicks to the far side of the room where Carmen Solano holds court without even trying. She doesn’t have to raise her voice. Doesn’t have to smile. She was born into this life. Knows how to wear power like a silk dress, smooth and tight, strangling anyone who pulls too hard. She sits with her legscrossed like a queen, taking up space like she owns the air, and every man in this room knows exactly who she is.
Daughter of our fallen president. Royal blood in an outlaw world. Untouchable. Necessary.
She’s not wearing a cut, but she doesn’t need one. Carmen’s name is her patch.
She looks over at me, and the look on her face says the same thing it always does. Remember your place. Remember your promises. Remember who you belong to now. It pisses me off every damn time, and the worst part is she’s not wrong. Not in the way that counts.
The deal was simple. I take the gavel. Become president. I take her hand. I keep the Saints from tearing themselves apart and Miami from smelling weakness.
And I send Darling away.
