A shadow near a club entrance.
A presence I feel even when I refuse to look.
And Carmen.
Carmen appears everywhere too.
Not in person.
Online.
Her face shows up in photos from charity events and club fundraisers. Her smile beside captions about loyalty and legacy. The Solano name dressed up in community work like it washes blood clean.
One blurry picture shows her hand resting lightly on Diablo’s arm outside Vice Ink.
The ring flashes in the camera light.
Like a warning.
Two weeks after the break-in, Lady opens her front door one afternoon and stops dead in the hallway.
I sit on the couch scrolling through my phone, trying not to spiral.
She turns slowly toward me.
“Your neighbor,” she says.
“What neighbor?”
“The one I told you about. The famous one.”
I sit up slightly.
Lady smirks. “He’s doing a photoshoot in the hallway like he owns the whole floor.”
“That’s insane.”
“Miami is insane,” she says. “Now hush. I’m not getting dragged into celebrity drama today.”
A laugh almost escapes me.
Almost.
My phone buzzes.
Unknown number.
My body goes cold.
Lady’s eyes flick toward the screen.
“You expecting someone?”
“No.”
My thumb hovers over decline.
Something tight twists in my chest anyway, like my body knows this number.
