Claimed by El Diablo

Chapter 4: The Cartel's Calling Card

The common room of The Iron Horse was a sprawling cavern of scarred wood, neon beer signs, and heavy clouds of cigarette smoke. The deafening roar of the storm outside had settled into a steady, miserable drizzle, but inside, the atmosphere was suffocatingly tense.

The moment Javier and I crossed the threshold, a heavy, expectant silence dropped over the room like a lead weight. Dozens of conversations died instantly. Pool cues were lowered. Beer bottles were set down. Every eye in the room zeroed in on us or more specifically, on the massive, protective hand Javier had planted firmly on the small of my back, right over the oversized leather jacket he’d draped over my shoulders.

My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs, loud enough that I was sure the tattooed giant beside me could hear it. I forced myself to keep my chin up, remembering Javier’s command: You belong to me now. Let them see it.

"Morning, brothers," Javier’s voice was a low, gravelly rumble that easily commanded the massive space.

A chorus of respectful "Morning, Boss" and "Prez" echoed back.

Javier didn't stop walking. He guided me through the sea of leather and denim toward a large, round oak table situated on a raised platform in the back corner of the room. It was clearly a place of authority the throne of the Kings of Chaos.

A man sitting at the table stood up as we approached. He was slightly leaner than Javier but just as heavily inked, with a shaved head and calculating, intelligent brown eyes. He wore a Vice President patch over his heart.

"Mateo," Javier said, pulling out a heavy wooden chair for me. It wasn't a gentlemanly gesture; it was a possessive one, a clear signal to everyone in the room that I belonged at his right hand. "This is Valentina."

I sat down gingerly, the leather of Javier’s jacket swallowing me.

Mateo extended a rough, calloused hand. "Nice to finally meet the girl who caused all that noise last night. Rosa told me you scrub up nicely. She wasn't lying."

I shook his hand, my grip trembling slightly despite my best efforts to appear brave. "Thank you. And thank Rosa for me, please."

"She’s one of us now," Javier stated flatly, taking the seat beside me. His massive thigh brushed against mine under the table, sending a jolt of confusing, fiery electricity straight up my spine. He didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned back, his obsidian eyes sweeping the room in a silent challenge to anyone who might question his decree. "She wears my patch. She carries my protection. Anyone disrespects her, they deal with me."

A collective murmur of agreement rippled through the nearest tables. Just like that, the terrifying, impossible lie was cemented into reality. I was the President's Old Lady.

A prospect a younger guy wearing a vest that lacked the full reaper patch hurried over, setting down plates of eggs, bacon, and burnt toast in front of us. My stomach churned at the smell of grease, twisting into tight, anxious knots. I hadn't eaten in twenty-four hours, but the thought of food made me nauseous.

"Eat," Javier murmured, pushing the plate closer to me.

"I can't," I whispered, keeping my eyes on the scarred table. "My stomach is in knots."

Before I could blink, Javier’s hand was under my chin, his long, calloused fingers gripping me firmly but gently, forcing me to look at him. The intensity in his dark eyes stole the breath right out of my lungs.

"You need your strength, *chica*," he said softly, the harsh edge of his voice softening into something dangerously close to care. "You are in my house. You are safe. Eat."

I swallowed hard, captivated by the raw, magnetic pull of the man. Against my better judgment, I picked up a piece of toast. A small, satisfied smirk tugged at the corner of his lips before he turned his attention to Mateo.

"What's the word on the street?" Javier asked, his tone instantly shifting back to business.

Mateo leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Hector went straight back to the east side. Word is, Marco Rojas threw a glass through a window when he heard you claimed Ortiz’s kid. The cartel is scrambling. They didn't expect to hit a brick wall, especially not the Kings."

"Let them scramble," Javier rumbled, tearing into his breakfast. "Rojas is a coward who hides behind his men. If he wants to test my borders, he'll find out exactly why they call me the devil."

I took a small bite of toast, my mind racing. They were talking about going to war with a heavily armed cartel all over a fake claim on a girl Javier had met less than twelve hours ago. It didn't make sense. There had to be more to this. Javier Vargas did not strike me as a man who played the knight in shining armor just for the thrill of it.

Suddenly, the heavy wooden doors at the front of the bar banged open, letting in a gust of damp, cold air.

A young biker, his leather soaked from the drizzle, sprinted into the room. He looked breathless, his eyes wide with a mixture of anger and alarm.

"Prez!" the biker shouted, dodging tables to reach our platform. "You need to come out to the front gates. Right now."

Javier was on his feet in a fraction of a second, his chair scraping violently against the floorboards. The relaxed, confident President vanished, replaced entirely by a lethal predator.

"What is it, Jax?" Javier demanded.

"The cartel, Boss," Jax spat, wiping rain from his face. "They didn't breach the perimeter, but they left a message. Right in the middle of our driveway."

The blood drained from my face. My father’s debt. My name. The cartel wasn't backing down.

"Stay here," Javier ordered, pointing a stiff finger at me. He didn't wait for my response, already striding toward the door with Mateo hot on his heels. Half the bar emptied out behind them, the heavy thud of boots echoing like a marching army.

I sat frozen for exactly three seconds. The terrifying unknown was worse than whatever was waiting outside. Wrapping the oversized leather jacket tighter around my shivering frame, I pushed away from the table and ran after them.

I pushed through the front doors, stepping out under the covered awning of the bar. The damp air hit my face, smelling of wet asphalt and gasoline.

Just beyond the heavy chain-link gates of the compound, parked dead center in the entrance, was my rusted Toyota.

A strangled gasp escaped my throat. The car was completely mangled, the front end crushed from my crash last night. But it hadn't just been towed here. The windshield had been entirely smashed in.

Javier stood at the gates, his hands gripping the chain-link fence, his knuckles bone-white. He was staring at the hood of my ruined car.

I forced my legs to move, weaving through the crowd of angry, muttering bikers until I reached Javier's side. He glanced down at me, his jaw clenched so tight I thought his teeth might shatter, but he didn't yell at me for disobeying him.

Resting in the center of the crushed hood was a pristine, polished wooden cigar box. And draped over the box, stark and horrifying against the gray morning, was my father’s favorite silver rosary the one he always wore around his neck. It was smeared with dried, dark blood.

"Open the gate," Javier growled.

"Boss, it could be rigged," Mateo warned, stepping forward.

"Open the damn gate," Javier repeated, his voice dropping to a terrifying, deadly octave.

Two bikers rushed to pull the heavy iron gates open. Javier walked out into the drizzle, his boots crunching on the gravel. I followed right behind him, unable to detach myself from his shadow.

He reached the hood of the car, ignoring the bloody rosary, and flipped the latch on the wooden box.

Inside sat a single, heavy lead bullet. Resting beneath it was a piece of expensive cream cardstock.

Javier picked up the note. I leaned in, my heart in my throat, and read the elegant, handwritten script over his massive bicep.

A fake claim won't save her, Diablo. The debt is half a million, or the girl's life. You have 24 hours to hand her over, or the Kings of Chaos will drown in their own blood. M.R.

A violent tremor wrecked my body. Twenty-four hours. They knew Javier was lying. They were calling his bluff, and they were willing to s*******r this entire motorcycle club to get to me.

"I'll pack my things," I whispered, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. A tear slipped down my cheek, hot and stinging. "I can't let you start a war over me. I'll turn myself in."

Javier slowly turned his head to look at me. The absolute, unhinged fury radiating from his dark eyes made me take a step back. He didn't look at me with pity. He looked at me like a dragon whose hoard had just been threatened.

He reached out, his heavy hand clamping around the back of my neck, pulling me flush against his chest right there in the open street.

"You aren't going anywhere," Javier snarled softly, his breath fanning across my face. He crumpled the note in his fist, crushing the thick paper into a tight ball. He tossed it onto the wet asphalt and ground it into the dirt with the heel of his heavy boot.

He turned back to face his men, who were watching him with baited, tense anticipation.

"Lock down the compound!" Javier roared, the sound echoing off the metal warehouses around us. "Arm the perimeter. Nobody gets in, nobody gets out. Mateo, call the charters. Tell them to mount up."

He looked back at the ruined car, his eyes burning with a dark, terrifying promise of violence.

"Marco Rojas wants a war? Fine. We'll paint the streets with him."