Her lips curve faintly.
“I want the Saints to survive.”
Her heels click softly against the floor as she approaches, each step deliberate even in grief.
“And Miami respects bloodlines,” she adds.
A harsh laugh slips out of me.
“You think putting a ring on your finger fixes this shit?”
“No,” she says calmly. “But it gives them something to believe in.”
She stops just close enough that I can see the faint redness around her eyes.
“You need me.”
The truth settles heavy in the room.
“Or I can recommend another,” she says, confirming my fears. Then she shrugs. “We could just let the Mutherfukers have Miami. I’m sure they’ll let us and all our loved ones live.”
Our rivals? I almost laugh, but my face drops. She’s serious.
“They killed my father,” she almost shouts. “¿Qué te pasa, asere? Vamos. Defiéndete. Ten cojones,” she rattles as she finally loses her temper. Then it returns. “If we don’t save this club, they’ll kill us all.”
Carmen and I are suddenly joined by the other officers, their faces as troubled as my own. Rafael’s death cracked the foundation of this club. Half the city expects the Saints Outlaws to tear themselves apart. A marriage ties the bloodline to the new president.
It keeps the sharks circling instead of biting.
By the time I climb the stairs, the decision is already made.
The hallway outside my room is quiet.
Downstairs the Saints Outlaws are still roaring like a storm tearing through the building. Bottles slam against wood. Engines rev out back in the alley where brothers are already gearing up to hunt the club who put Rafael in the ground.
None of it reaches me up here.
Up here there’s only the faint sound of ocean wind drifting through the cracked window at the end of the hall and the heavy weight of what I already know I have to do.
My hand pauses on the doorknob for a moment before I push it open.
Darling sits up immediately.
Her dark hair spills across her shoulders in messy waves. She’s wearing one of my shirts. The sleeves swallow her arms, and the hem barely brushes the tops of her thighs when she swings her legs over the edge of the bed.
Her eyes find the blood on my cut first.
“What happened?”
Her voice is soft but alert, the way it always gets when the club energy shifts into something dangerous.
I close the door behind me.
The click echoes through the room like something final.
“Our president is dead.”
Her hand flies to her mouth.
