I keep my face carefully neutral, my posture relaxed.Just another night.Nothing to see here.
Another hit.Another scream, weaker this time.
My stomach twists.
Paco's watching me.I can feel his searching for weakness.
"You good?"he asks.
I meet his gaze without blinking."Why wouldn't I be?"
He grins, satisfied."Just checking.Some girls can't handle the business side of things."
"I'm not some girls."
His grin widens."I'm starting to see that."
The beating continues.Sounds that make my skin crawl.Grunting.Sobbing.The dull impact of fists meeting flesh over and over.
I count without meaning to.Six.Seven.Eight.Each sound lands like a hammer in my chest.I keep counting, because if I stop, I'll have to face the fact that I'm complicit in this.That my silence makes me part of it.
Lord, let it stop.Please let it stop.
I glance at Jagger; he’s talking to Paco.Something about a shipment.But I can’t make out the words.My ears are ringing, hot liquid rising to my throat.
Everything inside me is screaming “This isn’t right.”I look at Jagger again, searching his face for any sign that this is getting to him.
Nothing.Not a single thing lets me know he’s sickened by what’s happening outside.
Finally, it stops.
But somehow the quiet is worse than the noise.
The enforcer walks back in, blood smeared across his knuckles.The Saints jersey guy follows, shaking out his hand.
"He'll live," the enforcer says to Jagger.
Jagger stands and pulls me up with him.His hand settles on my back again like nothing just happened—like we didn’t just sit there and listen to a man get beaten half to death.
My legs feel disconnected from my body, my breath shallow and fast despite my best efforts to control it.I let Jagger steer me outside, let him hand me my helmet, and woodenly get on my bike, heart pounding so hard it hurts.My hands tremble on the grips.
The images of the room don’t leave me, but neither does the way he navigated it—so calm, so controlled, as if nothing could touch him.
I thought I’d accepted it.I thought I’d understood the rules of this game.
But seeing it up close, feeling it brush against me, another truth becomes undeniable: if this is what he does to keep his cover intact, how far will I have to go?
Seven
Jagger
I’ve ridden home in worse conditions, but nothing has ever felt as brutal as the space between our bikes tonight.Adena kept her eyes forward the whole way—no eye contact, no warmth, just rigid control.
We barely clear the door before she moves toward the bathroom.
“I need a shower,” she says, still facing away.“Join me.”
There’s no heat in it.No tease.Just strategy wrapped in exhaustion, a warning disguised as an invitation—because in this place, privacy is another falsehood.
