“Oh my God,” I gasp, heat shooting up my neck.
Lady covers her mouth, eyes glittering behind her sunglasses even inside. “He did not.”
Disco bobs his head, crest up like he’s proud of himself.
“¡Dale!” he adds, like it’s punctuation.
Lady whistles low. “There she is.”
I glance at my reflection in the mirror.
For a moment I barely recognize the woman looking back.
Not Ana.
Not the girl with fading bruises and tired eyes.
Darling Rivera, I decide.
Lady grabs her DJ bag and slides her sunglasses back onto her face.
“Tonight,” she says, “we remind Miami who you are.”
My stomach flips, half nerves, half something reckless.
“And who’s that?”
She grins slowly. “The girl the devil never got over.”
Outside the windows the sun starts sliding toward the horizon, painting the skyline gold. Boats drift across Biscayne Bay. Music creeps through the streets again as Miami wakes up for another night like it can’t help itself.
For the first time in ages, I don’t feel confined.
I feel wild.
And somewhere back at Vice Ink, Diablo is eventually going to realize I’m gone.
Let him chase.
Tonight I’m not hiding.
Chapter 9
Darling
Eclipse sits on top of South Beach like it owns the sky. The elevator doors open onto a rooftop that feels more like a floating city than a nightclub, all glass walls and polished white marble reflecting the glow of Miami’s endless lights. The pool stretches along the edge of the building, glowing electric blue beneath strings of warm bulbs that sway in the humid wind. Beyond the railing, the Atlantic spreads out black and endless, waves flashing silver when moonlight catches their crests.
Disco is safe back at Lady’s condo, covered in his travel cage with a bowl full of seeds and a view of Biscayne Bay he doesn’t deserve. He screamed, “¡Dale!” at us twice when we left like he was giving permission.
I didn’t come to Eclipse to be safe.
I came to be seen.
The bass moves through the floor in smooth, heavy pulses. It travels up through my heels and into my ribs before I even hear the beat. Somewhere behind me a bottle pops open and laughter spills into the night air, bright and careless. The whole place smells like expensive perfume, sunscreen, and money trying to pretend it’s innocent.
Lady stands in the DJ booth like she belongs there more than gravity itself. Headphones hang around her neck, one handlifted as she blends the track into something darker and slower. The crowd moves when she moves. Influencers with perfect hair and designer bags cluster near the pool, filming themselves under the neon glow. A promoter in linen whispers into a phone like he’s running the stock market instead of a VIP list. Ball players in designer sneakers laugh too loud. Crypto idiots flex bottles like they invented champagne.
And me.
