“What do you want?”
“Now you ask the right question.”
“I’m bored.”
Boca grabs a white rose from a bucket and twirls it between his fingers. “Honestly, what will it hurt to tell you? We want your boyfriend to lose his fucking mind.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
The words taste bitter.
Boca grins. “Tell him that.”
Toro’s gaze sharpens. “We want Diablo reckless. Darling hysterical. The Saints looking weak while Miami watches. We want everyone asking who really runs this city.”
“And Carmen?”
“She wants what was stolen from her. The Saints Outlaws.”
“Did she pay you?”
He doesn’t answer.
That is almost an answer by itself.
Boca leans close, rose in hand. “Maybe she did. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she cried into her champagne and said awfulthings about Little Havana bartenders and shiny DJs who don’t know their place.”
I look at Toro, not Boca. “He talks too much.”
Toro’s mouth twitches.
Then he backhands Boca so fast I barely see it.
Boca stumbles, hand flying to his mouth. “Jefe.”
“She’s right,” Toro says. “You talk too much.”
I file that away too.
Toro is in charge. Boca resents it. Carmen’s name is bait. The Mutherfukers want confusion and chaos so they look like they are in charge.
And Cherry?
I didn’t ask about her.
That wound opens again before I can stop it.
Cherry knew enough to show up in my garage. Knew enough to act sorry after the trap was already sprung. Maybe they threatened her. Maybe she helped because jealousy makes stupid women useful to smart men. Maybe both.
A clubhouse sweetheart who thinks Shady owes her.
Shady’s old mess came right into my life wearing mascara and an apology.
With my literal life on the line, my eyes burn over Cherry, and I hate myself for it, but I refuse to cry in front of these men.
I don’t even know what I am to Shady. That is the stupid part. I’m tied to a chair because men decided I belong to him,and I don’t even know if he would have called me his in daylight if guns had not forced the word out of him.
In bed, he looked at me like I was dangerous.
