In the garage, he looked at me like I was necessary.
Those are not the same thing.
Toro walks to the table and picks up a phone. “We’re going to make a video.”
“No.”
He looks amused. “That wasn’t a request.”
“Neither was my answer.”
Boca laughs again, softer now because his lip is bleeding.
Toro turns the phone in his hand. “You’re going to tell Darling you’re alive. You’re going to tell Diablo that if he wants you back, he returns what he stole from Carmen.”
“What did he steal?”
Toro smiles.
“The throne. Rule over the Saints.”
“And Shady?” I ask.
Toro watches me closely. “You’ll tell Shady he chose wrong.”
My stomach turns. “Chose wrong?”
“Tell him he should’ve chosen Cherry.”
They want him angry.
No. Not just angry. Distracted. Men like Shady are dangerous because they organize rage. If they can make hisrage personal enough, dirty enough, jealous enough, maybe he misses a turn. Maybe he stops thinking like road captain and starts thinking like a man whose woman was dragged away after another woman betrayed him.
They don’t know him if they think he will stop thinking.
But they might know me. Because the words hit where they are supposed to.
He chose wrong.
Cherry’s text glows in my memory.
You still owe me.
The old hurt tries to speak. The part of me raised by Miami, by men who want the shine and not the woman under it, whispers that I’m the shiny mistake. Fun in a fancy condo. Good for a night. Too proud for the clubhouse. Too famous to keep. Too much glitter, not enough grit.
I close my eyes once.
Then I hear Shady’s voice.
You don’t have a brand with me.
I open my eyes.
“Fine,” I say.
Toro tilts his head.
“I’ll make your little video.”
