Chapter 19
Nineteen
Jagger
The Mississippi glints dull silver under the floodlights as I gun it past the old port road. Last pickup handled, last lie sealed in ink. One more delivery completed—next stop, Sin City.
Marquez was so pleased with the insurance paperwork Adena forged for the clinics that he dropped a duffel bag stuffed with cash through one of the usual channels. No electronic trail. No questions. Spending money for Vegas.
Adena may not want to go shopping with Valentina, but she’s going to have to. Marquez will expect her to act like any other cartel girlfriend, dripping with everything dirty money can buy. If she doesn’t spend, he’ll doubt her motive. And greed is the only motive he understands.
Traffic bottlenecks along Tchoupitoulas, trucks and tankers backing up the whole stretch of road. It takes me twenty minutes longer to reach Adena’s place, long enough for the storm to roll in off the river and spit a light rain that slicks the asphalt.
I park beside her Harley and climb the stairs, helmet under one arm, bag of money under the other. The vague trace of her coconut body oil laces the air before I even reach the door.
Across the kitchen table, copied Bible pages are spread out, her handwriting threaded through the margins. Another silent message.
In the bedroom, a drawer slides shut. I call out before she comes out firing. “It’s me.”
“I’m packing,” she calls back. “Give me ten.”
I drop my helmet onto the table and glance at what she’s left for me. Two verses are underlined.
Matthew 10:28 — Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. Rather, be afraid of the One who can destroy both soul and body in hell.
Isaiah 1:18 — Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.
The woman isn’t giving up.
I trace a finger along the edge of the paper. She doesn’t know half of what’s waiting for us in Vegas.
In New Orleans, the lies are spread thin—different fronts, different players. In Vegas, they all converge.
Marquez, Ortega, Valentina—all of them under one roof, watching each other for cracks. Ortega’s idea of a good time isn’t a show—it’s chaos wrapped in champagne.
Private tables, high rollers, dancers who don’t ask names. The kind of place where money and sin trade hands without a word, and nobody looks too closely at what’s really being sold.
That’s the thing about convergence.
It always ends the same way.
Someone bleeds.
Adena
I find Jagger waiting in the hall, leaning against the wall like he’s been there a while. His eyes lock on me immediately as I cross to the table and slide the Bible toward me.
As I push the pages into the binder, unease starts to trickle in, slow and persistent. I should check in with Jake or find a way to swing by Baronne Street, find out whether Lucia made it, whether we’re compromised.
But I can’t. The risk is too high—for me and now, unavoidably, for Jagger.
I seal the binder, gather my brushes and pens, and tuck them into my satchel, forcing my hands to stay steady. When I straighten, Jagger steps forward and takes the bag from me, slinging it over his shoulder like it belongs there.
“You’ll probably need to buy a suitcase when you’re there,” he says. “Maybe two.”
I frown. “We’re only in Vegas two days.”
“So make it count.” He shrugs. “I got my finder’s fee from Marquez.”
“How much?”
“Seventy-five.”
The number lands wrong. My mind stutters before it catches up. Not seventy-five hundred.
Seventy-five thousand.
Tax-free.
I push the thought aside before it can settle. “What’s my cut?”
His mouth curves, pleased I’m staying in character. “Valentina will handle the details.”
Of course, she will.
He hasn’t brought any luggage. No surprise there. He’ll pick up whatever he needs when we land, like this is just another errand. I’m still wrapping my head around the amount of cash he’s carrying when I lock the apartment and follow him down the stairs to wait for Marquez.
Apparently, it’s an honor he’s slumming it. I would’ve preferred my bike to an escort, but that’s not an option now.
My gaze drifts to my bike anyway—and snags on a piece of paper fluttering in the breeze near the tire. There’s one taped to Jagger’s, too.
They’re everywhere. Lampposts. Doors. Railings. Whoever put them up didn’t rush.
I pick one up, mostly to give my hands something to do.
“What’s that?” Jagger mutters, close behind me.
I skim it. “Church revival.”
It’s garish. Bright colors that clash violently with the old stone church pictured at the top. Worse than that, the typeface is wrong—juvenile, careless, like someone let a kid loose in a font menu and never corrected them.
Artistically, it’s a mess. And the scripture takes up way too much of the page.
The Lord will be a high tower for those who are crushed down, a high tower in times of trouble. Psalm 9:9
Jagger’s already lost interest, but I can’t let it go. My eyes keep tracing the layout, the spacing, the emphasis. All the small decisions. All the mistakes.
With a few minor adjustments—
The thought freezes.
With a few minor adjustments, this flyer would say something else entirely.
My pulse kicks harder.
It isn’t an invitation.
It’s a warning.
Silas just sent me a message. He’s telling me I need to go to Barrone Street.
And I have less than five minutes to decide whether to listen—or walk straight into something I won’t be able to undo.
Jagger
Either she’s getting sentimental about church flyers—which doesn’t track—or she’s reconsidering whether she can actually do this.
Marquez is due any minute. The last thing I need is hesitation now.
I don’t say anything. Don’t move. I let the moment pass without touching it, but my attention narrows, sharp and focused. For the first time since I met her, a thought edges in that I don’t like.
What if there’s something I didn’t factor in?
She isn’t looking at me. Isn’t really looking anywhere. Her gaze has gone distant, unfixed, like she’s already halfway inside a decision she hasn’t voiced yet.
She’s weighing something.
Or maybe she’s not weighing anything at all.
Maybe this is deliberate.
A pause placed just right. A moment of doubt meant to read as human. Uncertain. Real.
The idea slides down my spine like ice water.
What if this is the performance?
I’ve watched her lie to everyone else without breaking stride. Watched her shift personas as easily as changing clothes. Calm. Convincing. Surgical. What makes me think I’m seeing anything different now?
I shift my weight, careful not to draw her eye, every instinct wound tight. My whole operation depends on reading her right—on trusting that when it matters, she’ll be exactly who I need her to be.
Trust is a luxury I can’t afford.
And I’m starting to realize I’ve been spending it anyway.
If she’s playing me—if I misjudged her from the start—I won’t see it until it’s too late, until I’m standing in front of Marquez with nothing to show for it.
Or worse.
With a partner who’s already decided how this ends—and it doesn’t include coming to Vegas with me.
Adena
The nausea hits in waves. The same sick, hollow feeling from when I was ten years old while a judge asked me to choose. Mom or Dad. As if choosing one didn't mean abandoning the other.
I should walk. Get on the bike and disappear before Marquez shows. Before this goes any further. Before I'm in so deep there's no surface left to reach for.
It would be the smart play. The safe play.
But I can't.
Jagger shifts his weight. I catch the micro-movement—his hand drifting toward his side, then stopping. Controlling himself.
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.