The hallway is quiet in that aftershock way, like the building itself is listening for sirens.
Most of the Saints are still out handling the rooftop mess. Cleaning up shell casings before sunrise. Leaning on bartendersand doormen. Paying for silence. Making sure the story doesn’t grow teeth and bite the club back. Miami doesn’t care who started it, it cares who looks guilty on camera.
Vice Ink feels half-empty, half-haunted.
The party bass is gone. The neon still bleeds through the stained glass, bruised pink and blue on the floor. There’s a smear of something dark near the back hallway and a prospect is on his knees with bleach and a rag, scrubbing like God is watching.
I step around him, my stomach tight.
My whole body is running on that wired, trembling adrenaline you get after you’ve heard gunshots and lived through it. It makes everything loud. It makes every shadow look like a decision.
When I step into the bar, Lady is posted near the end like she owns the room even without a DJ booth. Her sunglasses are on top of her head, hair perfect, gloss still shining like nothing could touch her. It’s a lie. I can see the truth in her eyes.
The second she spots me, her face cracks.
“Oh, bebé,” she breathes, and I don’t even make it two steps before I’m in her arms.
She hugs me hard like she’s trying to squeeze the fear out of my ribs. I cling back, because for one second I need to feel something that isn’t danger.
“You good?” she demands, pulling back to scan my face, my wrists, the way my hands won’t stop shaking.
“I’m alive,” I say, because in this city that’s the only honest answer.
Shady is with her, leaning against the bar like a shadow that learned to look human. Road captain posture. He is tall andlean and calm in that dangerous way, like the chaos outside is just weather to him. His cut is half unzipped, road grime still on his boots, and he looks like he has been moving all night without ever letting his pulse show.
“Darling,” he says, his voice hushed. “You need water?”
“No,” I lie.
Lady makes a sound like she wants to smack the lie out of me. “Sit your ass down before you fall down,” she snaps, then softens just enough to press her forehead to mine for half a second. “I heard shots. I heard your name. I heard somebody say Diablo went feral.”
“He didn’t,” I say too fast, and that alone feels like a confession.
Shady’s mouth twitches like he’s got something smart and mean in his throat, but he keeps it in. He just nods once, like he heard the truth anyway.
For a minute, we’re all talking at once. Reliving pieces of it. Lady describing the rooftop bar, the way the crowd scattered, the way she hit the deck without spilling her drink because she’s ridiculous like that. Shady talking about the bikes, the routes, the way Magic and Vice moved like they were born for this. Me trying not to picture the muzzle flashes again.
Instead of ordering a prospect, Shady slips behind the bar and makes us drinks. It’s sweet. Lady notices him giving us space as well, and smiles when she squeezes my hand.
I tell her everything as Shady shakes margaritas. About how Diablo and I almost had sex again.
An hour passes, and the place is still quiet around the three of us. My shoulders finally relax. Lady leans into Shady and he kisses her head.
It’s sweet. They look happy as they hold hands like teenagers. Something tugs at my spine.
My bag. My keys. My phone. I left them in Diablo’s private room.
I tell myself I’m going to grab my bag. I tell myself I’m going to go home one way or another and change out of these clothes that smell like gunshots and adrenaline. I tell myself I just need a minute away from people’s eyes.
The truth is uglier.
Suddenly, I want to see him.
Lady catches the shift in my face instantly. “Don’t,” she warns, low.
“I’m just going to,” I start.
Shady straightens a fraction, eyes sharpening. “You shouldn’t go alone.”
