Page 193 of The Final Cut

“You have a choice,” Marisol says.

Her voice is quiet, but the church carries it.

Isabel’s head tilts. “Do I?”

“Yes.”

Reva cuts a quick look toward her mother. I catch it because I’ve become fluent in Reva’s face. That look says this was not the phrasing we agreed upon, and also, please do not volunteer me for organized crime before breakfast.

In almost any other setting, I might laugh.

Mari—we’ve all started calling her Mari—sees the look too. Something almost apologetic touches her mouth before she turns back to Isabel.

“You can retire,” Marisol says. “Publicly. Gracefully. You can transition La Rosa into your granddaughters’ hands without bloodshed.”

Reva’s eyes narrow harder. Delia doesn’t move.

Interesting.

She knew Mari would say it that way. Or she understands why. Granddaughters, plural, sounds stronger to the room. Blood on both sides of the aisle. The heir Isabel shaped and the ghost she failed to kill. One trained. One mythic. Together, they’re harder to dismiss.

Reva has no interest in ruling a cartel.

But Reva also has a gift for becoming the most useful weapon in a room by accident.

Isabel looks from Delia to Reva, then to Marisol. Then she scoffs. It’s a small sound.

It’s a fatal sound.

“I have no granddaughters.”

The words hit the room like a slap. Reva’s body goes very still. Delia’s smile thins until it barely looks human.

Marisol absorbs it differently. Her face loses color, but she doesn’t step back. She looks at the woman who birthed her, raised her, trapped her, and taught her daughters that love had to crawl beneath doors to survive.

“That’s a ridiculous statement,” she says.

“No.” Isabel’s voice sharpens, silk tearing at the edge. “I have—had—a daughter who disappointed me, one girl who might have been useful, and one mistake who should have died before she learned to make scenes in churches.”

Ever makes a low sound beside me. My hand starts to rise.

I don’t know what I mean to do with it. Catch Reva if she lunges. Reach for the gun beneath my jacket. Put myself between her and the old woman before Isabel finds the exact word that cuts deepest.

All of the above, probably.

I’m a man of many talents and poor impulse control where Reva is concerned.

Isabel’s gaze lands on Reva. “There is still time to correct that.”

The air leaves my lungs around the same moment Nash takes a single step. Deacon’s hand slides beneath his jacket.

Delia turns her body slightly, placing herself half in front of Reva, and that is when I see the gun in her hand. Low at her side. Small. Matte black. Hidden until now by her coat and the line of her body.

Isabel sees it too. Her eyes flick down. Then up.

“Delia,” Marisol says softly.

A warning. A plea. Maybe both.