Her eyes lock onto me, and she approaches.“Adena.”
My name in her mouth sounds like something scraped off a shoe.
“Simone,” I say, letting my gaze travel,verydeliberately, over the expensive dress in my hands.
“I heard you got an invite to the club.”She lifts a silk scarf from a display like she’s actually considering it.
“I take ityoudidn’t,” I echo back, voice soft.
She makes a tiny, brittle laugh.“You think you’re hot, don’t you, sug?You breeze in, Jagger holds your hand like a little lost baby bird, and suddenly you think you get a seat at the table.”
I shrug.“I earned it.I do good work.”
Her smile stays, but her eyes go flat, dead.“You haven’tearnedanything,” she says.“I’m not the only one who’s noticed.”
My pulse spikes, but I don’t blink.
“But don’t worry,” she leans in close enough for her perfume to sting.“At La Sombra Roja everyone watches, everyone judges.Marquez, his wife, whoever it is he’s having dinner with.And theywillsee it if you don’t belong.”
I smile, slow.“Is that why you’re not invited anymore?”
Her facecracks—only an inch, but enough.Her nostrils flare, jaw tightens, and she forgets to breathe for a second.
Her voice drops to a whisper made of venom.“Enjoy your evening, sug.I hope you don’t choke on it.”
Jagger
There isn't a bullet hole in the truck.
Just a scrape with a rust spot—the kind you see on any vehicle that's done a few thousand miles.Paco tries to laugh it off, but I catch the way his eyes cut to the driver, too quick and too rehearsed, a lie practiced in the mirror.He wanted to see if I'd fold, admit a mistake, then he'd go running to Marquez.
I leave him talking to the driver—his second cousin, naturally—and ride back toward my apartment with my jaw locked the whole way.
Adena's bike isn't out front, and my gut tightens, because parked at the curb, engine still ticking as it cools, is a familiar black Escalade.
Terrific.Marquez just “happened” to pick now to come visit.
I take the stairs two at a time.One of his bodyguards stands on the landing with feet planted and hand hovering a little too near his jacket.He shifts just enough to force me to pass close—a dominance move.
The door to my apartment is slightly open, not kicked in or forced, just unlocked.The air changes instantly, and my senses narrow.I push it wider with two fingers, shoulders tight, eyes scanning the entry for micro-shifts—a rug corner pushed the wrong way, a shadow where there shouldn't be one.Nothing obvious, which means everything's been touched.
I step inside.
Marquez is sitting on my couch like he's been here for hours, one arm along the back with ankles crossed, perfectly at ease.His ease is the threat.On the coffee table in front of him sits the Bible.
"You found God, Jagger?"he asks, amused, almost gentle—a tone he uses when he's about to open someone up just to see what spills out.
"Was I supposed to?"I lean against the doorframe, hands loose at my sides.
He laughs once, flat."Paco said the truck was hit."
"Paco got it wrong," I say."Just a rust scrape."
He nods slowly, too slowly, like each millimeter is another inch of pressure.Silence fills the room—thick and deliberate.I can hear the refrigerator hum, a car outside, the sound of my own heartbeat trying not to speed up.
"You had my place searched?"I ask.
"Don't take it personal."
