“She didn’t,” Magic cuts in. “Guy stole from us and vanished. No bike. No phone. No trail. Like he fell off the MacArthur and the water ate him.”
Which means he ran.
Or he’s already dead.
Either way, the debt doesn’t disappear. Not in my world. Not in MC life. You steal, you pay. One way or another. You or your loved ones.
I turn, finally allowing myself to glance at Carmen. She’s watching me now, dark eyes sharp, already calculating. Carmen doesn’t miss anything. She counts breaths. She tracks loyalty like it’s currency. She’ll know what this means before anyone explains it. She always does. The corners of her mouth lift like she’s already tasting victory, like she’s about to remind me this is exactly why she wanted Darling gone.
Her voice is bitter when it comes. “No.”
I don’t give her the satisfaction of asking what she means. I already know. No, because Darling is a weakness. No, because Carmen doesn’t like loose ends. No, because Carmen thinks she owns the right to decide who lives in my orbit.
I don’t.
“Bring her in,” I say, choosing to follow protocol.
Magic hesitates again. “Prez.”
The word lands heavy, official, reminding everyone who sits at the head of this table now.
“I said bring her in,” I repeat, and my voice leaves no room for argument. “Ahora. Y sin drama. Nobody touches her.”
Magic holds my gaze for a beat, reading the line I just drew. Then he nods once. “Copy.”
The Saints Outlaws don’t forgive.
They collect.
Thirty minutes later, the door opens.
Every head turns.
The front bell jingles like it doesn’t know it just rang a dinner bell for wolves.
Darling steps inside like she’s walking into a storm she already knows will drown her.
She’s thinner than I remember. Hair lighter, shorter, pulled back tight like she doesn’t trust herself to let it fall. She wears jeans and a plain tank, nothing flashy, nothing that belongs in my world. No heels. No glitter. No Miami nightclub armor. Her eyes sweep the room fast, taking inventory the way girls who grow up around danger learn to do, the way girls from Little Havana learn to count exits and threats and men who smile too much.
Then they land on me.
And everything else disappears.
God help me, she’s still beautiful. Still that quiet kind of fire that doesn’t need to scream to burn. The sight of her hits me low and hard, a memory and a promise and a threat all wrapped in skin. I have to hold myself back from saying her name like it's a prayer and from reaching for her.
She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t flinch.
She lifts her chin like she’s daring me to be what she remembers. Like she’s daring me to prove I’m still the man who threw her out, or the man who wanted to follow her.
Two of my guys stop short when they see her face. One of them mutters, “Coño,” under his breath like he just saw a ghost.
A prospect shifts by the door, nervous as hell, not sure if he’s supposed to block her or bow.
I step forward before anyone else can speak.
“Darling,” I say, her name tasting like regret. I let my eyes drag over her, let my voice drop the way it does when I’m trying not to show emotion. “Mi cariño.”
Her mouth tightens. The sound she makes is almost a laugh, but it dies in her throat. “Let me guess. My boyfriend stole from you?”
