The dress she picked out isn’t red, but it’s close enough to feel like a provocation.Deep wine-red velvet, clinging just enough to mark the subtle curve of her waist.The cut exposes the elegant line of her throat, the upper sweep of her shoulders, and I catch myself cataloging all of it like she did it all for me.
I force my eyes back to the road before she catches me staring.
The club appears ahead—set back from the street like it has nothing to prove.Brass placard unlit.Name whispered, not advertised.Single velvet rope, valet stand.The cars out front tell the real story: black SUVs with mirror tint, European coupes.
The valet opens Adena's door before I can get out.Every eye at the entrance turns.Not one of them is on me.
I round the car and offer my arm.She takes it, her hand resting lightly but deliberately in the crook of my elbow.Every step, every glance matters.
Inside, the air is heavy with expensive cologne and cigar smoke.The lighting is low—amber and gold—casting everything in warm shadows that soften edges and hide intentions.
Music pulses beneath conversation—not loud enough to drown words, just enough to fill the dangerous silences.A piano player works a grand in the corner.Couples sway on a small dance floor.Booths line the walls in dark leather, tables scattered across polished wood.
Security is positioned perfectly.One near the door.One at the bar.One on the mezzanine rail above.Discreet, but ready to act if trouble should break the carefully controlled ambiance.
Marquez waves from a corner booth.His wife sits beside him—elegant in black silk, diamonds at her throat and wrists.Mid-forties, beautiful in a disciplined, expensive way.Dark hair swept back in a perfect twist.
Valentina Marquez.Guilty of money laundering through luxury fashion import/export firms and sham charitable foundations.
Juan Marquez is the mouth.His wife is the real brain behind what runs through New Orleans.
"Jagger."Marquez stands, extends his hand.
I take it, my grip just shy of a challenge.I make him look at me, forcing his attention away from Adena for as long as I can hold it.
"And Adena."His eyes slide over her, approving."You look beautiful."
I feel the muscles in my back lock.It’s the same way he eyes a new shipment.I don't shift to block him—that’s a defensive tell—but I settle a hand on the small of her back, a claim disguised as a courtesy.
"Thank you."Adena's smile is gracious, controlled.
Valentina's gaze lands on Adena and holds.Not hostile.Not warm.Evaluating.Like she's deciding whether Adena is an asset, a liability, or competition.
"Hermosa," Valentina says, her smile perfect."That dress is stunning."
"Thank you."Adena slides into the booth beside me, the velvet whispering against leather.
The Juárez contact sits across from us—Ortega, older, maybe sixty, weathered face, expensive suit.He nods at me, then lets his gaze linger on Adena a beat too long.
Drinks appear without being ordered.Whiskey for me, champagne for Adena.
Ortega starts talking.Expansion.Distribution networks.The kind of documentation he needs—medical licenses, DEA numbers, the infrastructure to move product through legitimate channels.
Adena answers with precision.Professional.Confident.She knows her craft, and it shows.
But Valentina hasn't stopped watching her.
"So, Adena," Valentina says, cutting smoothly into a pause in the conversation.Her voice is warm.Welcoming.The smile never wavers."How long have you and Jagger known each other?"
"Six years," Adena says."On and off."
"On and off."Valentina repeats it like she's tasting the words."That sounds complicated."
"It was."Adena's hand finds mine on the table.Her fingers are cool, steady."We kept trying to make it work, but the timing never lined up."
"And now?"Valentina's eyes don't leave Adena's face.
"Now feels right," I say.My thumb brushes the back of Adena's hand.
