Claimed by El Diablo

The rain lashed against the cracked windshield of my rusted Toyota like a shower of tiny, angry stones. The wipers fought a losing battle, screeching back and forth, barely clearing the deluge enough for me to see the winding, treacherous road ahead. My knuckles were white on the steering wheel, my heart hammering a frantic, bruised rhythm against my ribs. I glanced at the rearview mirror for the hundredth time in the last hour, half-expecting to see the blinding headlights of a black SUV bearing down on me. They’re coming. They’re going to kill you.The thought played on an endless, agonizing loop in my mind. Just forty-eight hours ago, my biggest problem had been scraping together enough money for my final semester of nursing school. Then the police called. My father, Arturo a man I hadn’t spoken to in three years was dead. And he hadn’t just died; he had been executed. Worse, he had left behind a parting gift: a five-hundred-thousand-dollar gambling debt to the Rojas Cartel. A debt they had explicitly informed me, via a chilling visit to my apartment yesterday morning, was now mine to pay. With blood, or with my life. I hit the gas pedal, praying to a God I wasn’t sure was listening anymore. I needed to get out of the city, out of the state, anywhere the Rojas name didn't hold weight. Suddenly, a loud, metallic clunk shuddered through the floorboards. The steering wheel violently jerked to the right, nearly throwing the car off the slick asphalt. I screamed, slamming on the brakes. The car spun, tires hydroplaning, before finally slamming into a muddy ditch by the side of the road with a bone-jarring thud. Smoke immediately began to billow from from the crumpled hood, hissing furiously as the torrential rain hit the hot metal. "No, no, no, please!" I sobbed, frantically turning the ignition key. The engine let out a pathetic, dying click. Nothing else. Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at my throat. I was stranded. I grabbed my dead cell phone from the passenger seat the battery had died an hour ago, and the charger cord was frayed beyond use. I was miles away from the city limits, deep in the industrial outskirts where the warehouses gave way to forgotten scrapyards and empty lots. I pushed the door open and stumbled out into the freezing downpour. The chill soaked through my thin denim jacket instantly. I looked up and down the pitch-black road. There were no headlights. No houses. Just the suffocating darkness and the roar of the storm. Then, I saw it. About a half-mile down the road, cutting through the heavy sheet of rain, was the faint, buzzing glow of a red neon sign. I didn't think. I just ran. I slipped in the mud, scraping my knees, but the adrenaline pumping through my veins masked the pain. I clutched my small backpack to my chest, my soaked hair plastering across my face as I sprinted toward the light. As I got closer, the neon letters slowly bled into focus: The Iron Horse. Below the sign sat a sprawling, fortress-like building surrounded by high chain-link fences topped with barbed wire. Parked in a neat, menacing row out front were dozens of heavy, custom motorcycles. The chrome gleamed dangerously under the flickering streetlights. My stomach plummeted to my shoes. Everyone in the city knew this place. Everyone knew who rode those bikes. The Kings of Chaos Motorcycle Club. They were the undisputed rulers of the underground in this district, a brutal brotherhood that operated strictly by their own violent code. The police didn't cross them, and even the cartels trod lightly around their territory. I stopped at the edge of the gravel parking lot, the rain blinding me. Entering that bar was equivalent to walking into a lion's den wearing a steak around my neck. But the Rojas Cartel was hunting me down. The cartel wanted to sell me, torture me, or worse. The bikers... well, maybe they would just throw me out. I chose the unknown I didn't know. I pushed through the heavy wooden front doors. The immediate shift in atmosphere was jarring. The deafening roar of the rain was instantly replaced by the heavy thump of classic rock, the clinking of beer bottles, and the low, rumbling timbre of a dozen rough voices. The air was thick with the smell of stale beer, expensive tobacco, and worn leather. The moment the door clicked shut behind me, the music seemed to drop an octave. Conversations died out. One by one, heavy, tattooed heads turned toward the entrance. I stood there, shivering violently, a puddle of rainwater forming around my muddy sneakers. Dozens of hardened men stared at me. Some looked amused, others annoyed. Most just looked dangerous. "Can I help you, sweetheart? You look a little lost," a bartender with a braided beard called out, his voice not entirely unkind, but heavily laced with suspicion. I opened my mouth to speak, to ask to use a phone, to beg for a corner to hide in for just an hour, but the words died in my throat. From the shadows of a large booth in the back of the room, a figure stood up. My breath caught. He was massive easily six-foot-four, with shoulders broad enough to block out the sun. He wore a heavy leather cut with the Kings of Chaos reaper patch dominating the back, but it was his face that rooted me to the spot. It was a brutally handsome face, carved from granite and etched with violence. A jagged scar cut through his left eyebrow, and his jaw was shadowed with dark scruff. But his eyes... his eyes were pure, obsidian darkness. They locked onto mine with a predatory intensity that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. This was Javier Vargas. El Diablo.The President. Before I could process the terror radiating from his stare, another voice cut through the silence. A voice I recognized. "Well, I'll be damned. The storm dragged in a little rat." I whipped my head around. Stepping out from a dark alcove near the pool tables was Hector. A lieutenant for the Rojas Cartel. He wasn't alone; three heavily armed cartel enforcers stood behind him. They must have been here conducting some kind of backroom deal with the MC. My blood ran to ice. They found me. Hector sneered, revealing a gold-capped tooth. He took a step toward me, his eyes raking over my trembling, soaked body like I was a piece of meat on a butcher's block. "Your father left quite a mess, Valentina. Boss wants to see you. Now." I backed up, hitting the heavy wooden door behind me. There was nowhere to run. "I don't have the money," I choked out, my voice cracking. "I don't know anything!" "I don't care," Hector laughed, lunging forward. His rough, calloused hand clamped down on my bicep, his grip bruising as he yanked me toward him. I screamed, thrashing wildly, kicking at his shins, but he was too strong. "You're coming with us, puta." "Let me go!" I shrieked, tears of sheer terror finally spilling over. Suddenly, the air in the room seemed to vanish. A shadow fell over us, so suffocating and immense that even Hector froze. A heavy, heavily tattooed hand the knuckles bruised and adorned with thick silver rings closed around my hip. It was a grip like a steel vise, pulling me forcefully out of Hector's grasp and flush against a chest as hard as a brick wall. I gasped, surrounded by the intoxicating scent of cedar, motor oil, and pure, unfiltered danger. I looked up. Javier Vargas was standing right beside me. He didn't look at me; his obsidian eyes were fixed dead on Hector. The President didn't blink. He didn't flinch. The aura of lethal violence rolling off him was so potent I could practically taste it. Every biker in the bar had stood up. The click of safety mechanisms being switched off echoed ominously through the sudden, deathly quiet room. Hector swallowed hard, his bravado faltering, though he tried to hide it. "We're doing business here, Diablo. This is cartel business. That girl owes us." "She's with you, Diablo?" Hector sneered, though his voice trembled slightly as he looked at Javier's hand firmly planted on my waist. Javier’s fingers tightened on my hip, burning through my wet clothes. He pulled me impossibly closer, tucking me firmly against his side. "She's my Old Lady," Javier’s voice was a dark, lethal rumble that vibrated through my very bones. It wasn't a statement. It was a death sentence for anyone who disagreed. "Touch her, and they won't find enough of you to bury." Hector paled. He looked at the dozen guns now pointed in his direction, then back at Javier's unyielding, murderous expression. Starting a war in the heart of the Kings' compound over Arturo's daughter was suicide, and he knew it. "Fine," Hector spat, raising his hands slowly. "But the boss won't forget this." "Tell your boss to stay the hell out of my territory," Javier growled. Hector signaled his men, and they backed out of the bar, slipping into the stormy night. The heavy wooden doors slammed shut behind them, leaving a ringing silence in their wake. My legs finally gave out. The adrenaline crashed, leaving me hollow and shaking. I started to slide toward the floor, but Javier’s arm wrapped around my waist, holding me up effortlessly. Slowly, I tilted my head back to look at the monster who had just saved my life. His dark, fathomless eyes dropped to meet mine. There was no warmth in them. No comfort. Just a terrifying, possessive heat that made my breath hitch. I had run from the cartel, only to land straight in the arms of the monster. And as he stared down at me, I realized with terrifying clarity that he wasn't going to let me go.