They think they are. Maybe that’s the problem.
The moment Diablo leaves my side, and I step into the chaos alone, my body reacts before my brain can catch up. My shoulders tighten on instinct. My gaze sweeps the clubhouse the way Diablo taught me to scan for exits and threats. The old habits claw their way back to the surface even though I hate them.
Every sudden shout makes my pulse jump.
The Saints Outlaws move through the crowd like they own the damn city. Leather vests cut with their emblem, a skull, barbed wire and shamrocks, seem to glow under the lights. That three-piece patch makes people pretend they aren’t staring while their bodies still shift out of the way. Prospects hustle through with eyes down, doing anything to stay useful. It’s a party but it’s also like the whole room is one bad decision away from violence.
But this isn’t a typical biker scene. It’s Miami. The women in tight dresses and expensive heels who perch on laps, laughing too loud and pouring shots straight into open mouths are on another level. There’s a dress code here for the ladies that I’m seriously violating.
And right at the center of it all stands Diablo.
He isn’t trying to command the room, but the room bends toward him anyway. Like gravity. Like every man here knows exactly who holds the weight of the club on his shoulders.
The whole room is just furniture arranged around him. Diablo is built the way Miami builds its storms, thick through the shoulders, muscle cut into a man shape, a biker like a stormcloud. He looks like trouble even when he’s standing still. His beard is dark and sharp, and his eyes are the kind that make you forget how to blink, hard as cracked Calle Ocho pavement and just as unforgiving.
Ink covers him like a warning. A black cross is stamped on his wrist like he’s already decided what sins he’s willing to commit. I know that under his cut a heavy sea turtle spreads across his chest like a shield. Other tattoos fly down his arms land on his fingers like the city tried to brand him and he let it. There’s steel in him too, little glints at his ears, and that quiet, controlled violence in the way he holds his jaw, like he’s got every impulse on a leash.
Then he’s talking to Vice near the bar, posture loose in that controlled way that says he’s listening while planning something violent at the same time. His tattooed hands are steady. His face is stone. Those eyes flick toward me every few seconds like he’s checking that I’m still breathing.
That ought to make me feel safe.
Instead it makes something restless twist in my stomach. The attention feels heavy, territorial, like I’ve stepped into a cage that’s too familiar.
I hate it.
I crave it.
The worst part is how both feelings exist at the same time.
The music shifts to another reggaeton track, bass thundering harder as the DJ pushes the volume higher. Someone starts chanting along to the lyrics near the bar.
That’s when I look up.
Carmen stands on the balcony above the main floor again, exactly where she was earlier. She isn’t hiding in theshadows. She’s posed like she belongs above everyone else. One manicured hand rests lightly on the railing, long nails catching the neon bleeding through the stained glass.
She looks expensive.
Polished.
The kind of woman who grew up surrounded by money and expectations most people never see until they’re choking on them.
Her gaze finds me instantly.
Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.
She pushes away from the railing and begins descending the staircase with slow, deliberate steps. The crowd shifts automatically to give her space before she even hits the floor. A pocket opens around her like the room is trained to make room for Solano blood.
That alone tells me everything I need to know about who she is in here.
Royalty.
Or something close enough.
I don’t move when she approaches. Not because I’m brave. Because shrinking would taste too much like the years I spent swallowing my voice and pretending bruises didn’t hurt.
I did enough shrinking with Rico.
Never again.
