His shoulders tense.Just slightly.Like he's bracing for impact but trying not to show it.
If I leave now, Marquez kills him.That's not speculation.He vouched for me.Staked everything on me being exactly what he needs me to be.
My throat closes.
The doubt carved into his expression hasn't softened.If anything, it's deepening.He's reading me.Trying to figure out which way I'm going to break.
I should tell him.Should explain what staying means.What it costs.
But I can't risk it.Can't make my mouth work when he's looking at me like that—like I'm a puzzle he's one piece away from solving.Like he already knows the answer and is just waiting for me to confirm it.
Every Sunday morning I've spent in a pew.Every prayer I've whispered in the dark.Every choice I've made to stay on the narrow path even when the wide one looked easier.
All of it pointing in one direction: away from Jagger Rourke.
This doesn't make sense.
This is the opposite of sense.
Except here I am.Not moving.
Saving his life.
And fully prepared to ruin mine.
Jagger
The jet crouches ahead of us on the tarmac, chrome and white, sunlight striking its nose in sharp, fractured streaks.Heat rises in waves from the asphalt, distorting the air until the plane seems to shimmer.
Even parked, the thing looks predatory—sleek, waiting to swallow whoever steps close enough.
Adena walks beside me, hair caught by the wind off the turbines.She doesn't flinch, doesn't glance at me, doesn't do anything that might look like nerves.
But she's here.That's what matters.
The stairs are already lowered.Marquez climbs first, Valentina behind him in white linen that doesn't wrinkle despite the heat.Ortega follows, phone already pressed to his ear.The man hasn't stopped talking since we picked him up at his hotel in the Garden District.
I step into the cabin, and the air changes immediately.Cooler.Controlled.The kind of manufactured perfection that makes my skin itch.
Inside, everything gleams—leather the color of cream, glass polished to mirrors, champagne already waiting in cut crystal flutes.Luxury wrapped around surveillance.
The space is smaller than it looked from outside.Seats arranged in facing pairs.Nowhere to go.Nowhere to hide.
Marquez settles near the cockpit.Valentina beside him, perfectly composed.Ortega takes the chair across the aisle, finally ending his call.
Two of Ortega's men position themselves at the back.A subtle recognition that even here, trust is at a premium.
Like we discussed, Adena takes the seat across from me.Not beside.Across.Where she can see me.
She folds her hands in her lap and gives Marquez a careful, professional smile when he glances back at us.All business.All control.
I keep my expression neutral, but every part of me is focused on her—the tension in her shoulders she's trying to hide, the quiet pulse I can see in her throat.
Whatever was going on with her before is now locked down tight.
The cabin door seals shut.The engines start their climb toward a takeoff whine.
We're surrounded.Watched.Boxed in by luxury and cartel money and people who kill for pleasure, but all I can think about is the pain on her face seconds before Marquez pulled up.
