Claimed by El Diablo

Chapter 6: Ashes and Adrenaline

The roar of forty custom motorcycle engines shaking the floorboards of Javier’s loft was a sound I would never forget. It vibrated up through the soles of my boots, a mechanical, guttural war cry that drowned out the thunder of the storm.

I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, the oversized leather jacket wrapped tightly around my shivering frame, watching the Kings of Chaos roll out. The heavy iron gates of the compound swung wide, and they poured into the rain-slicked streets like a river of black leather and chrome. At the head of the pack was Javier. Even from up here, El Diablo was an unmistakable, terrifying force of nature.

Then, they were gone. The gates slammed shut, and a suffocating, heavy silence fell over the compound.

"First time is always the hardest."

I jumped, spinning away from the glass. Rosa stood in the doorway, her dark hair pulled back into a tight, practical braid. The fun, flirtatious woman who had done my makeup a few hours ago was gone. In her place was a hardened survivor. She wore a heavy Kevlar vest over her clothes, and strapped to her thigh was a matte-black tactical holster holding a very real, very loaded Glock.

In her hand, she carried a bulky, military-grade radio.

"I'm supposed to just stay up here?" I asked, my voice betraying my trembling hands. "While they go die for me?"

"They aren't going to die," Rosa said firmly, walking over to the mahogany desk and setting the radio down. She twisted a dial, and a hiss of static filled the room. "And yes, you stay here. Javier locked down the perimeter. Nobody gets in. But sitting in the dark letting your mind wander is a rookie mistake. Come here."

I hesitated, then walked over to the desk. The radio crackled, picking up the encrypted frequency the club used.

"What are they doing?" I asked, staring at the little black box as if it were a bomb about to go off.

"Marco Rojas thinks he can send a message by putting a bullet in a box on your hood," Rosa said, her dark eyes flashing with a dangerous, vindictive light. "Javier is going to send a louder one. The cartel uses a shipping warehouse down at the port to launder their street cash before it gets moved south. It's heavily guarded, but Marco thinks the storm will keep everyone inside."

"Javier is robbing them?"

"No," Rosa corrected, a grim smile touching her lips. "He's burning it to the ground."

My breath hitched. I pulled a leather chair up beside her, my eyes glued to the radio. For twenty agonizing minutes, the only sound was the hiss of static and the relentless drumming of rain against the window. The waiting was a unique kind of torture. I pictured Javier’s dark, furious eyes. I pictured the jagged scar on his brow. I pictured him bleeding out on a cold concrete floor, all because my father couldn't stop placing bets.

Suddenly, the static broke.

"Positions," Javier’s voice snapped through the speaker. It didn't sound like the man who had held me so gently just an hour ago. It was cold, mechanical, and entirely lethal.

"South side secured, Prez," Mateo’s voice filtered through. "We got six tangos at the loading dock. Heavily armed."

"Jax, plant the charges,"* Javier ordered. "On my mark. Three. Two. One. Mark."

A split second later, a dull, concussive THUD echoed through the radio, so loud it made me flinch. The sound of shouting erupted from the speaker, followed instantly by the terrifying, rapid-fire staccato of automatic weapons.

Pop-pop-pop-pop.

I pressed my hands over my mouth to stifle a scream. The gunfire was chaotic, relentless. I could hear men yelling in Spanish, the shattering of glass, the revving of a motorcycle engine inside a building. It was the sound of a s*******r.

"Move in! Give 'em hell!" a biker shouted over the comms.

"I'm pinned!"another voice yelled, sounding terrifyingly young. Jax. "They got an LMG on the catwalk!"*

"Keep your head down, kid," Javier’s voice roared over the gunfire. "Mateo, cover me!"

"What is he doing?" I gasped, grabbing Rosa’s arm. "Rosa, what is he doing?!"

Rosa’s face was pale, her jaw clenched tight. "He's making a push. He won't let his prospect take a bullet."

The gunfire over the radio intensified to a deafening roar. I squeezed my eyes shut, a silent, desperate prayer tumbling from my lips. Please. Please don't let him die. Not for me.

Then, a massive, earth-shattering explosion ripped through the audio feed. The radio shrieked with violent feedback, forcing Rosa to quickly turn the volume dial down. The shockwave must have been massive, because a few seconds later, the windows of the loft rattled faintly in their frames, the distant echo of the blast rolling over the city.

The radio went dead silent. Just static.

"Rosa?" I whispered, my heart pounding so hard my ribs ached.

She didn't answer. She was staring at the radio, her hand hovering over the receiver. One minute passed. Then two. The silence was suffocating.

Finally, a burst of static.

"Warehouse is ashes,"Mateo’s voice panted, sounding breathless and exhausted. "Cartel rats are dead or running. We're mounting up."

I let out a ragged sob, burying my face in my hands. The relief was a physical weight crashing down on me.

"Prez, we got a problem,"Mateo’s voice cut back in, tight with urgency. "Dallas took a round to the shoulder. He's bleeding bad. We need the med kit ready the second we hit the gates."

"Ten minutes," Javier’s dark rumble answered. "Call it in."

The channel clicked off.

My head snapped up. Dallas. One of the men I had seen in the bar earlier. A gunshot wound to the shoulder. Arterial bleeding was a massive risk. Shock. Infection.

The terrified, helpless girl vanished, replaced instantly by the years of grueling nursing school training drilled into my brain.

"Where is the medical room?" I demanded, standing up so fast the leather chair tipped backward.

Rosa blinked, surprised by the sudden shift in my demeanor. "Downstairs, behind the bar. But Valentina, you can't—"

"I'm two months away from being a registered trauma nurse," I interrupted, my voice leaving no room for argument. "If he's bleeding badly, your club doctor is going to need an extra set of hands. Now, take me downstairs."

Rosa stared at me for a fraction of a second, seeing the unyielding determination in my eyes, before she nodded. "Let's go."

We rushed out of the loft and flew down the stairs. The common room, previously empty, was now buzzing with the few bikers left behind on guard duty. Rosa pushed through them, leading me to a sterile, brightly lit room at the back of the building. It looked like a miniature emergency room, complete with a steel examination table, IV bags, and locked cabinets of supplies. An older biker with reading glasses Doc was already laying out gauze and surgical tools.

"I'm here to help," I told him, stripping off Javier’s oversized leather jacket and throwing it on a chair. I immediately moved to the sink, scrubbing my hands with iodine soap. "I'm trained."

Doc looked at Rosa, who gave a sharp nod. "Grab those pressure bandages, kid. We got a bleeder coming in hot."

A blaring air horn suddenly echoed from the front of the compound. The gates were opening.

I stood by the steel table, a stack of bandages in my shaking hands, listening to the roar of the engines flooding the gravel lot. Heavy boots pounded against the wooden floorboards of the bar.

The doors to the med room burst open.

Two bikers carried a groaning, blood-soaked man into the room, hauling him onto the steel table. But my eyes didn't go to the patient.

They went to the man walking in right behind them.

Javier filled the doorway. He was drenched in rain and sweat. His black t-shirt was torn at the collar, his knuckles were split and bleeding, and a streak of dark soot was smeared across his jaw, making the scar on his brow look even more prominent. He looked like exactly what they called him the monster walking out .

He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me standing over the surgical table, my sleeves rolled up, my hands stained with iodine.

Our eyes locked across the chaotic, blood-scented room.

I expected him to yell at me for leaving the safety of the loft. I expected the cold, ruthless President. Instead, the raw, violent adrenaline radiating from him seemed to tether directly to me. His chest he heave, his dark, pitch-black eyes devouring the sight of me safe, untouched, and stepping up to save his man.

The possessive heat in his gaze was so intense it stole the breath right out of my lungs. The cartel war had officially started, but as Javier stared at me through the chaos, I realized the most dangerous thing in this compound wasn't Marco Rojas.

It was the way I was falling for the monster standing in front of me.

"Get to work," Javier growled, his eyes never leaving mine.