Chapter 13 #2
Using my peripheral vision, I spy the cause of his sudden departure.
Simone, still splashed in gaudy animal print and makeup way too thick for daytime.
She's by the handbags, arms crossed, looking at me like I'm something she stepped in.
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, very deliberately, 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 it you didn’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’t earned anything,” 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 they will see it if you don’t belong.”
I smile, slow. “Is that why you’re not invited anymore?”
Her face cracks—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."
I shrug. "Have I ever?"
His fingers drag along the Bible's spine in a small but deliberate gesture—a cat playing with something to see if it moves. "Adena wanted a copy," I say before he can ask. "I didn't ask why."
His fingers stop, then resume tapping the armrest—thumb, index, middle, ring—the same pace a man uses while deciding whether to kill someone.
Outside, a motorcycle engine growls low and familiar. Adena. Marquez smiles. "Then you won't mind if I do?"
My jaw flexes, and I force it still. "Go ahead. I've got nothing to hide."
The door swings open, and Adena steps in with a garment bag over her arm and helmet tucked under the other. Her gaze sweeps the room—the guards, the Bible, the man on my couch—but she doesn't react outwardly.
"I was just asking Jagger why you wanted this," Marquez says, tapping the Bible.
Adena sets down her helmet and responds flawlessly. "Research. I'm thinking of forging an early King James," she says lightly. "Authentic ones sell for thirty, forty thousand."
Marquez’s eyes narrow just a hair. “This isn’t a King James.”
Adena’s eyebrow lifts. Just the slightest brush of cockiness in her tone. “Of course not. The best forgers never trust one version.”
Even I’m stunned at the quick response. Silence hangs in the room like held breath, a single beat hanging on a wire.
Finally, Marquez chuckles. "You did well bringing her to me."
He stands, straightens his jacket, and walks toward the door. He pauses beside her, too close, his gaze sliding down and back up like she's a piece of merchandise.
“Hope you bought something red," he murmurs. "I like red."
The door swings shut behind Marquez, but his two guards remain for a beat, their eyes lingering on Adena with a cold, predatory indifference. Finally, they follow their boss, their heavy boots thudding against the floorboards until the outer door clicks shut.
The silence that follows isn't peaceful; it's the ringing in your ears after an explosion.
“You’re full of surprises,” I say to her.
She shrugs. “Survival is a great motivator for creativity.”
She’s not wrong there. But she better have more than one brushstroke in her kit.
Because Marquez didn’t walk out satisfied—he walked out planning his next test.
Adena
My heart is still pounding, thoughts skidding over what almost happened. Leaving the Bible here was well intentioned, but careless. It could have cost us everything.
I don’t know where the answer came from. I only know it wasn’t mine. The words arrived fully formed, and the only explanation I have is the Lord’s answer to a hastily whispered prayer.
Marquez has unwittingly given me permission to keep the Bible. I can read it, study it, even share scripture with Jagger all in plain sight. Right under their noses.
This wasn’t luck. This was provision.
Smiling, I look at Jagger. “I came back because I need you to drive me in the Audi.”
His brow furrows. “Where?”
“I have an appointment at a salon.” I dangle my fingernails in front of him. “I’ll have wet nails for the next two hours. You want glamor, it takes effort.”
His expression shifts. "I'm getting the full beauty queen treatment?"
I hide a grimace at his choice of words and slowly nod. "What about you?"
He glances down at his rumpled shirt and jeans. "I'll shower, shave, make myself presentable."
"Presentable." I let the word hang there. "Try for impressive. We need to wow Marquez tonight."
"We will.” He pushes off the counter, easing into the role the more we play it, and moves closer, so he can whisper in my ear. “Marquez isn’t the only one who likes red.”
Heat tears through my veins, and I have to will myself not to react as he pulls back, grinning.
A knock at the door cuts through the moment.
Hand moving to his back, Jagger moves to the door, looks through the peephole, then pulls it open with more force than necessary.
A stunning blonde wearing a bright orange vest over a polo shirt is outside. She's got a clipboard in one hand and a collection bucket in the other. Her smile is wide, practiced, relentlessly cheerful.
Miles away from the woman I’ve come to know since she joined Hightower.
Samantha Duke is Silas’s latest recruit and former con artist. Now, she’s standing in Jagger's doorway collecting for a drug addiction charity, of all things.
Silas’s way of checking on me and showing off his dry sense of humor.
"Hi there! I'm with New Orleans Mission—we're doing a neighborhood drive today for our recovery programs. Do you have a moment?"
"Not interested." Jagger moves to close the door.
Samantha puts her hand on the frame, still smiling. "I totally understand! But we're really trying to help folks who are struggling with addiction right here in the community. Just a dollar or two makes a difference."
"I said no." His voice has an edge now.
She doesn't flinch, just shifts her attention to me. "Ma'am? Maybe you'd like to contribute? We provide meals, counseling, job training—help for people who need a way out."
"We're not interested." Jagger's hand tightens on the door.
Samantha's eyes meet mine. "We’re located on Baronne Street." Her smile widens. "Day or night. Someone's always there."
I give her a tiny nod before Jagger slams the door in her face. "They get pushier every year."
I don't answer. I can't, because Sam just handed me a lifeline.
Baronne Street. Day or night. This wasn’t just about giving me an alternative means of contact.
If Marquez pushes too far, if I need out, an extraction team will be there.
I glance at Jagger. He's already back at the window, scanning the street, hand hovering near his weapon.
He’s running on adrenaline, duty, and whatever pieces of himself he hasn’t burned out yet. No one’s watching to make sure he sleeps or eats. No one’s praying for him. No one is standing on any street ready to risk themselves for his sake.
I have people who care about me. Friends. Teammates.
I have a door I can walk through anytime I want.
Jagger doesn’t.
He’s just a sentinel guarding a house that’s already empty, waiting for a war that’s never going to let him go.