Claimed by El Diablo

Chapter 13: Blood on the Crown

The smell of cordite and copper hung thick and heavy in the cramped space of the closet.

I clung to Javier’s broad shoulders, my fingers digging so deeply into his bare skin I was surely leaving crescent-shaped bruises. My entire body was vibrating with a violent, uncontrollable tremor. My ears were still ringing from the deafening blasts of the 9mm, but the only sound that registered was the frantic, hammering rhythm of Javier’s heart against my chest.

"Look at me," Javier commanded gently, his large hands moving from my back to cup my face.

I shook my head, burying my face deeper into the crook of his neck. If I opened my eyes, I would have to look at the floor. I would have to look at the lifeless, bleeding heap of the man I had just shot.

"Valentina. Look at me." The command was firmer this time, an anchor dropping into the chaotic storm of my mind.

Slowly, I pulled back, blinking through the tears that blurred my vision. Javier’s face was inches from mine. The lethal, blood-soaked President who had torn up the stairs was gone; in his eyes, there was only a fierce, agonizing tenderness. His thumbs brushed over my cheekbones, smearing a mix of his soot and my tears.

"I killed him," I whispered, the words scraping out of my dry throat like broken glass. A fresh wave of nausea hit me. "Javier, he was going to... I just pulled the trigger."

"You survived," Javier corrected, his voice a low, vibrating rumble of absolute conviction. "He came into our home to drag you into a cage, and you stopped him. You protected yourself. You protected our family."

"But the blood—"

"Is on Marco Rojas’s hands," Javier interrupted fiercely. He leaned his forehead against mine, forcing me to stay grounded in his dark, unwavering gaze. "Not yours. You did exactly what you had to do, mi reina. I have never been prouder of you than I am right now."

The absolute certainty in his voice cut through the paralyzing shock. He didn't look at me like I was broken or tainted by the violence. He looked at me with profound, awe-struck reverence. I had stepped out of the role of the helpless victim and into the brutal reality of his world, and he was honoring the strength it took to do it.

Footsteps thundered up the stairs, heavy and rushed.

"Prez!" Mateo’s voice barked as he breached the bedroom. He rounded the corner into the closet, his assault rifle raised, his chest heaving under a Kevlar vest.

Mateo took in the scene in a fraction of a second: the shattered panic room door, the dead bounty hunter on the floor, and Javier kneeling on the ground, holding me.

Mateo lowered his rifle, letting out a sharp, ragged exhale. "Woah. I heard the shots. I thought he got to her."

"He tried," Javier said coldly, not taking his eyes off me. "My wife handled it."

Mateo’s eyes widened slightly as he looked at the 9mm Glock resting near my knee, then back to the dead man. A slow, deeply respectful nod dipped his chin. "We held the perimeter, Boss. Three SUVs are burning in the courtyard. We have five brothers wounded, none fatal. But the gates are compromised."

"Get a cleanup crew up here immediately," Javier ordered, his tone shifting back to the ruthless tactician. "Bag the trash and scrub the floors. Then get everyone into the main bar. We are changing strategy."

"On it," Mateo said, spinning on his heel and barking orders into his radio as he jogged back down the stairs.

Javier stood up in one fluid motion, reaching down to scoop me into his arms. I wrapped my arms around his neck, burying my face against his collarbone as he carried me out of the closet, refusing to let me look at the body one last time.

He didn't take me to the bed. He carried me straight into the master bathroom, setting me down gently on the cold slate tile. He grabbed a washcloth from the counter, running it under warm water.

"I can do it," I murmured, my hands still shaking slightly as I reached for the cloth.

"Let me," Javier insisted softly.

He methodically wiped the gunpowder residue and soot from my hands and face. His touch was incredibly gentle, a stark contrast to the violence that had just saturated the compound. When he was finished, he tossed the cloth into the sink and picked up the heavy silver reaper pendant that rested against my chest, right over the oversized black t-shirt.

"Marco sent his dogs because he thinks we are hiding behind these walls," Javier murmured, his thumb tracing the silver rose. "He thinks the million-dollar bounty will slowly bleed us out, keeping us on the defensive until someone slips through the cracks. He was almost right."

A cold shiver ran down my spine as Javier’s obsidian eyes lifted to meet mine. The unyielding, terrifying wrath of El Diablo was fully awake.

"We aren't hiding anymore," Javier declared. "Get dressed in your own clothes, Valentina. Put the jacket on. You are coming downstairs with me."

***

The atmosphere in The Iron Horse was apocalyptic.

The heavy oak doors had been barricaded with pool tables. The air was thick with the acrid smoke of burning tires from the courtyard and the sharp bite of cordite. Glass from the shattered front windows crunched underfoot. In the corner, Doc and Rosa were frantically wrapping bandages and setting a dislocated shoulder for two of the younger prospects.

But despite the destruction, the Kings of Chaos stood tall. They were battered, bleeding, and exhausted, but their eyes burned with the manic, unified adrenaline of a pack that had just successfully defended its den.

When Javier and I reached the bottom of the wooden stairs, the noise in the bar instantly died down.

I stood tall beside my husband. I was wearing my dark denim, my combat boots, and his heavy leather motorcycle jacket. The silver reaper rested proudly against my chest. I forced my hands to remain steady at my sides. I had killed a man thirty minutes ago. I had crossed a line I could never uncross, and as the men looked at me, I realized they knew it.

The respectful glances from yesterday had deepened into absolute, silent reverence. I wasn't just wearing the President's patch; I had earned it with blood.

Javier walked to the center of the room, leaving me standing at the edge of the stairs. He didn't raise his voice, but the low, lethal rumble of his baritone commanded every square inch of the bar.

"They breached our gates," Javier began, his dark eyes sweeping over his men. "Marco Rojas sent desperate street rats to do his dirty work, and they managed to put a boot on the second floor of my home. If it weren't for the fact that my wife has better aim than half the prospects in this room, we would be having a very different conversation right now."

A low, appreciative murmur rippled through the crowd. Mateo, leaning against the bar counter, shot me a grim, approving smile.

"Marco thinks we are going to lock the doors and wait out the storm," Javier continued, pacing like a caged panther. "He thinks that million-dollar bounty is going to keep us busy fighting off junkies while he sits safe in his mansion on the East Side."

Javier stopped pacing. He reached to his belt, pulling a heavy, serrated combat knife from its sheath. In one swift, violent motion, he drove the blade deep into the scarred wood of the nearest table.

The loud thwack made several men jump.

"We are done playing defense," Javier roared, the sheer force of his anger vibrating through the floorboards. "If Rojas wants to put a price on my Queen's head, then I am putting a price on his entire empire! Mateo!"

"Yeah, Boss?" Mateo straightened up instantly.

"Call the Reaper charters in the south and the Nomads up north. Tell them the Kings of Chaos are declaring open war. I want every man with a patch and a gun inside city limits by midnight." Javier yanked the knife from the table, his eyes burning with a hellish, uncompromising fire. "We aren't waiting for the bounty hunters to come back. Tonight, we ride into the East Side. We burn his clubs, we sink his shipments, and we don't stop pulling triggers until Marco Rojas is a memory."

A deafening, blood-curdling roar erupted from the Kings of Chaos. Bikers raised their assault rifles into the air, banging their heavy boots against the floor in a chaotic war drum of absolute loyalty.

Javier turned back to me through the sea of shouting, violent men. The look he gave me was a promise. He had married me to protect me legally, but now he was going to burn the city to ashes to protect me permanently.

The siege of The Iron Horse was over. The war for the East Side had just begun.