Her chest rises fast like she’s been running instead of standing still. She laughs under her breath, but there isn’t a drop of humor in it.
“You don’t get to rewrite history,” she says.
I take a step toward her.
She moves back on instinct, only one step before catching herself and planting her feet like she refuses to give ground again. That’s Darling. Always braver than the situation deserves. Brave enough to stand up to a man who could end her with a word in this world. Brave enough to stand up to me.
“I did it to keep you alive,” I say quietly. My voice is steady now, controlled in the way my brothers recognize as dangerous. “You think I wanted that ring on Carmen’s finger? You think I wanted to watch you walk out that door?”
“You made me,” she fires back.
Outside these walls, the Saints don’t sit with tension. They drink through it, laugh through it, drown it in liquor and bad decisions. In MC life, when the air turns sharp, you either party harder or you spill blood. Nobody does quiet.
But inside this office there’s nowhere to hide from what we are.
“You’re Rico’s woman? How long?”
Darling folds her arms over her chest, shoulders tight, chin lifted in that stubborn way I remember too well. Her hair is messy from being dragged here by my men. Her skin smells faintly like coconut shampoo and Miami humidity, like she passed a ventanita on Calle Ocho and the sweet cafecito air clung to her, like the night stuck its hands in her hair and didn’t let go.
It hits me with memory so sharp I have to clench my teeth to keep from reaching for her again.
Then she says it.
“He hits me.”
The words aren’t loud.
They don’t need to be.
Every muscle in my body goes still.
Her eyes meet mine like she’s daring me to look away from the truth she just dropped in the middle of the room.
“He hits me,” she repeats, quieter this time, meaner, like she’s spitting it at my feet. “Happy?”
“How long?”
“Three years. Since you tossed me out like trash.”
Something inside my chest caves in.
My teeth grind together until the metallic taste coats my tongue. I drag a breath through my nose and keep my voice steady by force.
“Don’t.”
Her eyebrows rise. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?” she snaps. “Like it’s real?”
She turns away from me and walks toward the window where the balcony overlooks the main floor of Vice Ink. Neon from the street filters through the glass, painting the office in flickers of pink and blue. Below us, the club’s laughter punches up through the floorboards. A chant starts and dies. A bottle pops. Someone hollers for shots like they’re trying to drown the air.
“You asked,” she says.
I follow her halfway across the room, then stop myself from grabbing her again. My hands hover useless at my sides, the way a man’s hands do when he wants to touch and knows he shouldn’t.
“He’s done this the whole time?” I ask.
