Before he disappears, he glances back over his shoulder.
Carmen is still on that platform.
Still smiling.
But now it’s not satisfied.
Now it’s sharp.
Because she knows exactly what we just did.
And she’s going to make me pay for it.
Chapter 7
Diablo
Magic’s knock still echoes in my bones when I step back out into the noise.
Rico’s moving.
The words chase me out of my office with Darling’s taste on my mouth and her scent still on my hands, and now the club is a furnace again. Reggaeton pounds through the speakers so hard the bass rattles the stained-glass windows. Chrome from the bikes along the wall catches flashes of neon pink and electric blue.
I don’t let Darling walk behind me.
That’s not about pride.
That’s about the way eyes follow a woman in this room, the way rumors sharpen into weapons, the way a pretty face and a fresh bruise can turn into a story somebody uses for leverage.
Mi cariño is stubborn. She didn’t listen. She wouldn’t stay behind. So I keep her at my side, hand on her wrist. My claim reads loud without me saying a word. The Saints clock it immediately. Patches shift. Prospects look down and move fast. Women whisper behind their hands like they’re placing bets. Nobody steps in our path.
Carmen’s laugh floats across the room above it all, smooth and confident, like she’s already celebrating a victory nobody else has noticed yet.
Darling tries to pull free the second my grip tightens.
“You’re not going anywhere,” I say, and the second the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve crossed a line. Darling doesn’t like to be told what to do. She aims to do the opposite.
The sentence hangs between us like a dare, sharp and impossible to pull back. Her eyes flash hot and furious, the kind of fire that used to make grown men twice her size shut their mouths on Calle Ocho. For a heartbeat I see her standing in the middle of 8th Street with a bottle in her hand and zero fear in her voice.
She’s not scared of me.
Not really.
She’s hurt.
And somehow that feels worse than if she’d slapped me.
I lean closer so my words disappear into the music instead of the crowd.
“Come with me,” I say quietly. “Dale.”
Her chin lifts in defiance. “I’m not hiding.”
“You’re not hiding,” I reply, keeping my voice low and steady. “You’re staying where I can see you. Where my men can cover you.”
Her mouth tightens like she wants to argue. For a second I expect her to cause a scene right here in front of everyone, to make the whole room watch our blood spill in public. Instead she hesitates, and that hesitation is enough.
I take her hand.
