That was the part I didn’t hesitate on at the time.
I told myself it was mercy. That if she stayed, this world would chew her up and spit out bones. That loving me would ruin her. I told myself a lot of bullshit, because it was easier than admitting the truth.
I pushed. Cut ties. Let her believe she wasn’t enough. Let her walk away thinking I didn’t give a damn, because if she hated me, she might actually stay gone.
I’ve burned cities for less than the lie I told her.
A woman brushes past me, hips swaying, lipstick too red, dress too tight. She presses into my side like I’m a prize she can win if she tries hard enough. I don’t even know her name. That’s half the problem and half the reason Carmen thinks she can throw words like loyalty at me with a straight face.
“Diablo,” the woman purrs, nails sliding over my cut like she’s touching a trophy. “Buy me a drink, papi. I’ll make it worth your while.”
I glance down at her hand like it’s something dirty stuck to my skin.
“Get your fucking hand off me,” I say, calm as a revolver.
She laughs like I’m flirting. Like she’s used to men in Miami folding when a pretty mouth asks.
“Come on,” she says, dragging the word out. “Don’t act like you don’t want it.”
“I didn’t say I don’t want it,” I tell her. “I said get the fuck off me.”
Her smile falters. She backs away fast when she sees my eyes. Good. Smart girls survive longer in Miami. The dumb ones end up on a missing poster in a bodega window with a candle under it.
A chair scrapes behind me. Magic leans in, voice low, breath smelling like beer and menthols. He’s my sergeant-at-arms, my hammer, the man who handles problems before they make it to my table.
“We got a problem,” he says.
I don’t look away from the room. “We always do.”
“Not like this.” He hesitates, and Magic doesn’t hesitate unless the truth has teeth. “Someone hit one of our cash runs. Took product and disappeared. Stole a Harley.”
I purse my lips. It registers in my teeth. A hit on our money is a hit on our respect, and in MC life, respect is everything.
“Who?” I ask.
“That’s the thing. Guy’s a nobody. Low-level. Not patched. Not even a prospect. Just a punk we used for runs because he knew the streets and kept his mouth shut.” Magic’s jaw flexes. “But he was sleeping with one of the bartenders in Little Havana.”
“And?”
“Prez,” he breathes. “I don’t want to say.”
The look he gives me is enough.
The air shifts. My chest locks down like a fist closing around my lungs. My grip tightens on the rum glass until it threatens to crack.
“Say her name,” I say.
Magic swallows. “Darling Rivera.”
The room tilts.
Sound drops out for half a second, like the ocean pulling back before a wave hits. I taste copper. Heat spikes under my skin, sudden and violent, the kind that ends in broken bones and bodies in the bay.
No.
I set my glass down carefully. Too carefully. If I don’t control it, I’ll break something. Someone. I’ve learned to keep my temper on a leash in public, but it’s never been tame. It’s just trained.
“She hasn’t been near us in years,” I say. “She wouldn’t.”
