Chapter 20 #2
I meet her gaze in the mirror. “Maybe exotic isn’t always a bad thing.”
She smiles, but it’s lacking any warmth. “For a woman in your position, blending in is essential.”
She waves to the clerk. “We’ll take it. And a wrap. Silk charmeuse. Neutral. No need to overstate.”
As the associate disappears with the dress, Valentina adds, almost conversationally, “My husband will be pleased. He’s been… disappointed before.”
The word pleased prickles under my skin.
I smile just enough to show I understand she means girls like Lucia. “I’ll do my best not to disappoint you or your husband.”
It’s the right answer.
I learned that lesson the day I lost Little Miss Magnolia. I hesitated when I should have complied.
Jagger
Adena's late.
Shopping with Valentina took longer than it should have, and the delay tightens the air in Marquez's suite.
Nobody says it, but lateness means one of three things: disrespect, disinterest, or defiance.
And any one of those things can be lethal.
Marquez sits motionless in his chair, tuxedo tailored so precisely it looks painted on. Calm in a way that warns me he's thinking two steps ahead. His fingers rest on the arm like he's conducting something only he can hear.
Ortega leans against the bar, ice clinking in his glass. Tux. Restless fingers tapping the crystal—all noise and bravado, but calculated. Testing boundaries.
Valentina's in a gown that costs more than most people make in a year.
I'm dressed the same as them: black tie. Hair held back, tailored just enough to show the clear order of hierarchy.
In New Orleans, power spreads itself out. I deal with Marquez. Valentina's shadow moves through corridors and quiet deals, her influence something I don’t deal with unless I have to.
Vegas is crushing all that. Here, every layer of hierarchy collapses into one place—four walls of marble and glass holding three people who don't share power; they circle it. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the Strip, all that glittering chaos outside, while we sit trapped in silence inside.
And Adena is pushing it by keeping us waiting for over ten minutes.
I keep my breathing even. My hands are loose but ready. Every word feels dangerous. Every silence, worse. In here, even eye contact carries weight. One glance too long can shift the balance.
I've been in shootouts that felt less volatile than this.
When she finally arrives and steps inside, conversation dies—what little of it existed. The shift is immediate, like someone pulled the oxygen out of the room and replaced it with something heavier.
The gown hits me first. Forest green, so deep it's almost black until the light catches it. The fabric moves like breath when she walks, fitted but restrained, following her shape without announcing it.
Under the chandeliers, the silk crepe shows a subtle sheen, something alive in the way it moves. She doesn't look like she's trying. That's what makes her even more alluring.
Marquez looks up, assessing. Slow. Deliberate. His eyes travel the length of her like he's pricing merchandise. Ortega's smirk widens into something indecent.
Valentina's smile doesn't move, but her eyes flick to me—just once, enough to remind me she's watching what I do with this moment.
They’re waiting to see how I’ll react. Whether I’m distracted. Possessive. Weak.
Adena’s eyes find mine—just for a second—and it’s too much. It’s part defiance, part apology. But in this room, anything human looks like a mistake.
I can’t afford to give them one.
When I speak, my voice comes out cold. “Don’t keep them waiting again.”
Adena
Dinner is as painful as I imagined it would be.
Crystal chandeliers wash the marble in soft light.
Voices stay low. Every sound is measured—the scrape of cutlery on Limoges, the silent choreography of waitstaff, the controlled pour into Baccarat glasses.
It’s the same rhythm as a pageant stage: each movement counted, each gesture judged, every misstep magnified.
No one comes here hungry. They come to decide who leaves intact.
Valentina's chosen the setting, of course. The table position, the view, the way the light hits. Nothing about it is accidental. It’s like a judging panel in miniature, her gaze sharper than any crown-obsessed judge I’ve endured.
I can feel her attention flick toward me at intervals—quiet, exacting. She doesn’t need to speak. I already know this is another test.
I’ve been here before. Different room. Smaller table. Same rules.
Sit straight. Elbows in. Napkin first. Wait until the adults begin.
The memory bites down before I can stop it: a hotel banquet hall, the air smelling of hairspray and citrus polish.
I was twelve. A judge’s hand on my wrist, gentle enough to look kind, firm enough to hurt. Don’t reach unless you’re invited, sweetheart.
My mother's smile remained fixed beside me. I swallowed my shame, my hunger, the burning behind my eyes, and learned the lesson.
How to eat without appetite. How to smile without warmth. How to disappear until summoned.
The pageant circuit called it poise.
It felt like suffocating in a bedazzled straitjacket.
Just like in New Orleans, Marquez orders for the table without asking what anyone wants.
When the waiter retreats, the conversation drifts toward business, politics, something coded beneath politeness. I watch the rhythm of it—who interrupts, who waits, who commands the pause. It's not just hierarchy. It's instinct. Predators dressed in civility.
My fork finds the plate. My smile stays soft. My breathing stays level even though something in my throat is tightening with each passing second—the same tightening that taught me to mask fear with poise, hunger with elegance, panic with polish.
Valentina lifts her wine, a small, precise smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “You play poker, don't you, querida?”
The question isn’t about cards.
I set my fork down carefully. Take a breath that doesn’t show. “I know the rules.”
“Then you'll understand this.” She gestures toward the sleek glass partition beyond the dining room, where a private poker table gleams under soft light. “Join us for a few hands after dinner. I want to see how much you’ll gamble.”
Her tone is benign. The challenge underneath isn’t.
Jagger
Valentina leans forward, diamonds catching the light with each movement. “No limits tonight,” she says. “Just instinct.”
Ortega grins. “Instinct gets expensive.”
“That’s the point.”
By the third hand, Adena’s in control of the rhythm. Not challenging, not submissive—just steady. Calculated. And that draws Valentina’s attention like blood in water.
I can feel my pulse accelerating. She’s not supposed to be good at this. But she is.
“So you do play,” Valentina says, eyes sharp on her.
“I learn fast.” Adena meets her gaze without blinking.
Marquez chuckles. “That she does.”
My hands stay loose on the table, but every muscle in my body is calculating angles and possible exits.
Valentina’s smile tightens. “Let’s make it interesting.” She doubles the ante. The chips clink, sharp as gunfire.
The rest of the table is a joke. Ortega’s bluffing, badly. Marquez has nothing and folds.
Neither is concentrating. They’re watching Adena, not playing. Valentina raises again. This isn’t casual anymore.
Every second Adena studies her cards ratchets the tension tighter until it’s pressing in behind my ribs, in my throat, in the space between us that’s suddenly too small.
Valentina watches her like a cat waiting for the twitch of a mouse’s tail. “You play beautifully,” she says. “But the best players don’t win with their hands. They win with what the others want.”
She flicks her gaze to me. “Wouldn’t you agree, Jagger?”
I keep my voice even, but every nerve in my body is screaming. “Depends on the table.”
Ortega laughs, low and amused. “Come on, hermano. Every table’s the same. Stakes just change.”
Marquez smiles faintly, lifting his glass. “Then let’s raise them.”
Valentina drags a fingertip across her cards, slow. “All right.” She turns her attention fully to Adena—all warmth gone, only polished civility left. “If you win this hand, Jagger walks away clear. No debts.”
A cold rush hits my spine. She didn’t free me. She transferred the cost.
Adena’s eyes narrow slightly. “And if I lose?”
Valentina’s smile is delicate, dangerous. “Then you owe me a favor.”
The word hangs there. A favor. No parameters. No limits. No expiration date.
My mind goes straight to the worst places.
Valentina deciding Adena has to pick up a package at a warehouse on the river, hand-deliver cash. Or deciding Adena needs to get close to someone specific—one of Valentina’s allies or enemies—and play a part until the man trusts her completely.
Or worse: Valentina using her to get to me. Telling Adena to listen for certain names, to watch my movements, to bring back something I said in confidence, to “prove her loyalty” by testing mine.
The silence that follows is suffocating. Ortega’s grin widens. Marquez doesn’t intervene—he’s watching me, not her, measuring, reading whether I’m about to break.
Adena’s voice cuts through the quiet, calm. “Fine.” She sets her chips forward. “Deal.”
My jaw locks so hard I taste it. She doesn’t look at me—can’t, or won’t.
The cards turn slow. The river comes down—king of diamonds.
Adena exhales once, then lays her cards flat on the felt. Straight.
Valentina’s hand falls short by one.
For a second—just one—air rushes back into my lungs. Relief hits fast and sharp, almost painful. But the relief is gone as fast as it came.
Valentina’s smile is a mask. A woman like her doesn’t lose anything—not without deciding what she’ll take instead.
For a moment, no one moves. Then Marquez starts to laugh—quiet, genuine, like he’s just seen something unexpected and dangerous take root.
Valentina’s smile stays fixed, but her posture is stiffer. “Well,” she says softly. “Seems fortune favors the brave.”
Adena gathers her winnings, slow, deliberate. Her fingers don’t shake. “Guess it does.”
Marquez raises his glass toward her. “Welcome to the big time, Adena. Let’s hope your luck lasts.”
Valentina lifts her glass in a mock toast. “To instinct.”
Adena mirrors the gesture, calm on the surface.
But her win didn’t close the door.
It cracked it wider—and Valentina never lets a door close once she’s put her foot through it.
The table resets for the next round.
Only this time, the stakes aren’t cards or chips.
They’re us.