Chapter 14
Fourteen
Jagger
The Audi hums beneath me as I navigate through the Quarter, but I'm barely registering the route.
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.
Valentina tilts her head slightly. "You know, mija, I've known Jagger for three years. Never once did he mention you." She lifts her champagne glass, takes a delicate sip. "Isn't that strange?"
The air at the table shifts.
Adena doesn't flinch. "We make no claims on each other. Why would he?"
"True." Valentina sets her glass down with precision. "But men talk about the women who matter." Her smile is razor-sharp beneath the warmth. "You must not have made much of an impression."
I lean back, draped in a casualness I don't feel. I let a slow, ghost of a smirk pull at one corner of my mouth. "I don't talk about my favorite things, Valentina. Makes people want to steal them."
My thumb brushes the back of Adena's hand, steady and slow, even as the air at the table turns to glass.
"Valentina." Marquez's voice carries warning.
She waves him off, still focused on Adena. "I'm just curious. A woman with your skills—so specialized, so valuable—why hasn’t he put a ring on your finger?"
My hand tightens on Adena's. Every instinct screams to shut this down, but intervening will only make it worse.
Adena meets Valentina's gaze without blinking. "Oh, he asked. But I had a job… and you know how it goes."
"Of course." Valentina's smile doesn't shift. "And you're very good at what you do. The samples you provided were exceptional." She leans forward slightly. "But forgery is such a particular skill. Where did you learn it?"
"Art school. Started with painting, moved into restoration work. Learned the techniques, then applied them differently."
"Art school." Valentina nods slowly. "And your family? What do they think of your... career change?"
"My family's not in the picture."
"How sad." Valentina's expression is pure sympathy. Pure poison. "So no one to miss you if relocated here permanently… or just… vanished."
I set my glass down. The heavy crystal hits the table with a dull thud that cuts through her "sympathy." I don't interrupt, but I lean into Valentina’s space, my shadow falling over her plate. I don't have to say a word; the shift in the atmosphere says it for me. Try it.
The threat hangs there, wrapped in concern.
Ortega clears his throat. "The documentation—when can you have the first batch ready?"
Adena shifts smoothly back to business. "Two weeks for the initial set. Medical licenses take longer—they need to be verifiable in the state databases."
But Valentina's not done. "Do you know what you're getting into?" Her eyes are sharp. Assessing.
"I'm fully aware." Adena's voice is even. Controlled.
Valentina sits back. "Wanting the money and having the stomach for the work are two different things." She glances at Marquez. "We've seen people crack under pressure. Make mistakes. Become liabilities."
My jaw tightens. She's not just testing Adena anymore. She's threatening her.
"I don't," Adena says quietly. Steel beneath the calm.
Valentina studies her for three long seconds. Then she smiles—genuine this time, or as close as she gets. "Good. Because if you did, it would reflect poorly on Jagger. And we'd hate to lose him."
The message is clear: You're not just risking yourself. You're risking him.
Marquez signals a server. "Another round. And let's talk numbers."
The conversation shifts. Business. Safe territory.
But I can feel Adena's pulse hammering where my thumb rests against her wrist.
Valentina just showed her teeth, and the night has only just begun.
Adena
I let my eyes drift across the room while pretending to listen.
Valentina's still watching me. Not openly—she's too refined for that—but I feel her gaze like a weight every time I shift in my seat. Like she's documenting my every breath, waiting for me to slip.
I sip my champagne and pray no one notices how much I loathe the stuff.
Beside me, Jagger's talking numbers with Ortega.
Distribution routes. Profit margins. His voice is steady, confident, like he's done this a thousand times. When I catch his side glance, I force myself to nod at appropriate intervals and make sure I’m wearing the neutral expression of a woman who understands just enough to be useful but not enough to be threatening.
The servers move like ghosts—refilling water glasses, clearing plates, appearing and vanishing without a sound. One sets a small dessert plate in front of me. Crème br?lée.
"Adena." Marquez's voice cuts through the conversation. "Dance with me."
My stomach drops.
Jagger's hand tightens on mine under the table. Just for a second, then he releases me, his fingers sliding away as he picks up his spoon and taps on the shell.
I force a smile and set down my champagne. "I'd love to."
Another lie to add to the growing list. How can Jagger stand these people?
Marquez rises and leads me to the dance floor, weaving between tables with practiced ease. The music shifts as we step onto the polished wood—something slower, more intimate. Almost as if he planned it.
Wonderful.
His hand finds the small of my back, pulling me way closer than necessary.
"You handled Valentina well," he says, his breath warm against my temple. "Most women crumble under her scrutiny."
"I won’t."
He laughs—a low, pleased sound. "No. You can’t afford to." His hand slides lower on my back, fingers splaying possessively. "That's why you're valuable."
We drift toward the edge of the floor, away from the lights, into the shadows near the back hallway where the music softens and the eyes of the room don't quite reach.
His hand drops lower. Curves over my backside.
Every muscle in my body locks. My breath catches. I feel the heat of his palm through the velvet, the press of his fingers.
He doesn't move it.
My heart hammers. Adrenaline floods my system—fight or flight—but I can't do either. Can't shove him away. Can't run. Can't even flinch.
I'm trapped in this moment, his hand on me, his body too close.