"You've already risked enough by coming to Vegas."
Her shoulders square.Her jaw locks.There's something in her eyes—defiance mixed with something softer.Something that looks like she's arguing with herself more than with me.
"I'll make contact with him," I say, preempting her.
Her eyebrows hike."And say what?Adena's gone rogue?"
"Have you?"
Her lip twitches, but she ignores me."You can't contact him.You're under just as much scrutiny as I am."
Maybe.Maybe not.But I know where Marquez will want to take Ortega.I’m counting on it.
"Tomorrow night when we go to a club, there's a 7-Eleven nearby with an old payphone outside.It saved my life a few years back.I'll make a call."
She nods."Tell him my loyalty was being tested, and I didn't have time to make contact before we left.Tell him I'm in Vegas, and I'll reach out when I can."
I glance at the engagement ring on her finger.“You want me to mention things have gotten complicated?”
Her lips press together.
"Alright then.Give me the number to call.”
She rattles off a cell number, which I trace against my thigh with a fingertip—old habit from surveillance training—anchoring it before it can fade.
I pull out my wallet and slide out a few of my credit cards, picking the flashiest one I’ve been given to use as part of my cover.
“Take my Platinum Visa?—"
"I have my own.”
I look up at her."Not while you're shopping with Valentina, you don't.You flash this around and spend when she spends.It signals ownership but shows your primary goal is money."
At the distaste on her face, I unzip the duffel, count out a grand, and leave it on the table for her."And take this, get it changed into small bills.Make sure she sees you do it.You'll need cash for tipping."
“I do know how to do this, Jagger.”
I nod and swing the safe deposit box open.
“Anything else I need to tell this Silas guy?”
Inside is over a hundred thousand of cartel money.Unmarked.Untraceable.
It would be so easy to…
Adena comes alongside me and pushes the door shut with a clang.
Her eyes meet mine, and there’s something in her words that makes me burn with shame.“Tell him a man’s soul was at stake,” she says.
Adena
The store is closed for the afternoon—a private booking.Two stylists hover in practiced stillness, all smiles and quiet voices, pretending not to notice the security posted near the entrance.
Valentina glides ahead of me, every inch controlled grace.A cream silk blouse catches the light, tailored so precisely it looks painted on.Diamonds flash at her wrist—subtle, expensive, deliberate.Black slacks.Understated heels that echo softly against marble.
I stay half a pace behind her, careful not to crowd her space or fall too far back.She notices everything—where my gaze lingers, how I hold my shoulders, what I don’t react to.
She glances at me over her shoulder, smile soft and deliberate, already expecting the answer.“Do you like shopping?”
