Wrong woman.
Still, the threat doesn’t care about her feelings. Carmen’s pride just got gutted in public. Diablo’s name is tied to Darling all over Little Havana. White roses belong to the Mutherfukers, and they’ve been too quiet since Rico hit Darling’s place. Quiet enemies aren’t resting. They’re choosing an angle.
Anything can be an angle. Lady is an angle. Darling’s best friend. Vice Ink’s DJ. Miami-famous face. Woman with my bite marks still warming under her towel.
I cross the room and grab her phone off the dresser, thumb already checking the charge like I’ve got a right.
She snatches it from my hand.
“Don’t.”
“Stay here, Lady.”
“No.”
I stare at her.
She stares back.
The city is bright behind her, glass and sun and somewhere out there, murder pretending it’s scenery.
“Do you know what today is?” she asks.
“The day Carmen starts a war.”
“It’s also the day I’m playing a noon set at Eclipse for a charity livestream that I promoted for three months. There are sponsors, cameras, contracts and about five thousand people waiting to watch me smile like my life is cute.”
“Cancel the damn thing.”
She laughs once. “You say that like a man who can make me.”
My jaw tightens because I can feel the old argument opening its teeth. “This ain’t about owning you.”
“Funny how men always say that right before they tell me what to do.”
“I’m telling you what’s safe.”
“No,” she says, stepping closer. “Oye, gringo, you’re telling me what’s convenient for your fear.”
That hits harder than it should.
I’m not scared. I don’t do scared. I do prepared. I do armed. I do watching exits while everybody else orders another round. I do counting vehicles and clocks and brothers and bullets. Fear is just information your body gives you before your brain catches up.
But Lady standing there with war waking up below us makes fear feel personal.
“You’re connected to Darling,” I say. “That makes you useful to anyone trying to hurt Diablo.”
“I’ve been connected to Darling since we were sixteen and she cried in the girls’ bathroom because some pendeja made fun of her shoes.”
“Don’t be cute.”
“I’m always cute.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” She drops the towel and walks naked across the room like the argument would be stronger with clothes but she refuses to need them. “You don’t get to show up in my bed, bite me like you’re signing your damn name, then order me to stay in my place like I’m some shiny little hostage you get to keep safe.”
The word hostage punches through the room.
