“I think you’re late for church.”
Her phone pings. She snatches it off the dresser and checks the screen.
For a second, all the attitude drains from her face.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.”
Now she’s the liar.
I cross the room before she can tuck the phone away. She moves fast, but I’m faster. I catch her wrist and turn the screen just enough to read it.
Unknown number. Pretty girls should stay out of biker wars.
Below it is a photo.
Not of Darling. Not Diablo.
Lady.
Last night.
Leaving Vice Ink with me, my hand at the small of her back, her head turned toward me like she was laughing at something only I said. A red circle drawn around her face. Another around mine.
And in the corner of the photo, placed on the curb near my bike, one white rose. White roses ain’t flowers in Miami anymore. They’re receipts. Warnings. Pretty little death threats with stems.
My blood goes cold in a way heat can’t touch.
Lady stares at the screen, face perfectly still.
Too still.
“Is that Carmen?” she asks.
“No.”
“But the rose?”
“Mutherfukers.”
The name lands between us like a body.
Her throat moves. “The rival MC?”
“Yeah.”
“The ones tied to Rafael?”
“Yeah.”
She inhales, slow and careful, like she’s trying not to let fear show up in her lungs.
I take the phone from her and forward the photo to Vice, Magic, and Diablo.
Then I call Magic.
He answers on the first ring. “What now?”
