Heat flickers between them so fast and dark I feel like I should look away.
“Debatable,” she says.
Then she gets into the SUV.
Shady watches the door shut like he is being punished by a god with perfect aim.
Diablo’s hand settles at my lower back. Not pushing. Not guiding. Just there.
“We go back to Vice Ink,” he says.
I look up at him. “Do we?”
His eyes are still on the road, on the cars, on the men, on the threats his mind keeps turning into maps. “Alpha has something on Reyes. Disco is in my office trying to eat a pen. We need to regroup.”
“Disco eats pens when he is emotionally neglected.”
“Disco eats pens because he is a terrorist in feathers.”
“He learned from your club.”
Diablo finally looks at me.
The hard line of his mouth softens for one breath.
Then another camera flash hits us, and his expression closes again.
“Get in the car, amor.”
I hate that the word still moves through me.
I also hate that tonight, love feels too close to ownership.
Vice Ink is awake when we return.
Not loud. Awake.
There is a difference. Loud means drunk brothers, music, smoke, women laughing too sharp, dice rolling at the bar, someone yelling from the back hall because Magic started trouble and decided to make it communal. Awake means guns on tables, men posted at every entrance, laptop glow across old wood, and the kind of silence that listens for engines.
The old church looks less like a clubhouse tonight and more like a war room with stained glass.
Disco screams the second we step inside.
“Diablo! Pendejo!”
Diablo stops under the balcony, eyes closing.
I press my lips together.
“Don’t laugh,” he says.
“I would never.”
“You’re laughing inside.”
“I’m a woman of faith. I’m praying for your patience.”
Disco flaps from his perch inside Diablo’s office, loud enough to rattle the door. “Pretty Lady! ¡No roses!”
