Chapter 23 #2
He laughs and the gun dips to my abdomen, presses hard into the bruise forming under my ribs. “Your little novia,” He shakes his head, amused. “She’s a ghost wearing skin. And ghosts usually work for someone.”
I force myself upright even as the pain radiates hot through my side. “Not her,” I grind out.
Paco steps back just enough to aim properly. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You name her handler. Right now. You tell me who she reports to, and maybe—maybe—I let her keep breathing long enough for you to say goodbye.”
The world narrows to the black circle of the barrel.
And for the first time since he threw the first punch, fear claws up my spine—not for me.
For her.
The muzzle rises from my abdomen to the center of my chest.
A clean shot. Point-blank.
Paco’s expression doesn’t change—he’s already decided how this ends.
“Her handler,” he says quietly. “Name him.”
My heart hammers once—hard. Adena’s face flashes behind my eyes. I swallow, force myself to breathe through the pain blazing across my ribs.
I don’t move. “She doesn’t have a handler because she’s not working for anyone. She’s mine. You want to test her loyalty, you come through me.”
His brows lift a fraction. “See, hermano… that sounds exactly like something a man protecting a fed would say.”
I feel the tremor in my legs, the pull of gravity trying to take me down, but I lock my knees. “You really think Marquez would hire someone who left a paper trail? Think. If she can’t even hide herself from the feds, how can she hide anything for him?”
It’s a lie wrapped in enough truth to hold. A lie with no one here to contradict it.
Paco circles me slowly, gun never wavering. He stops behind me, close enough that his breath hits my shoulder. “Simone thinks she’s a rata. I think she’s right.”
I straighten as much as I can. “Simone is full of it. If Adena was a rat,” I say, forcing the words through my teeth, “she wouldn’t be marrying into this life.”
The muzzle snaps up again, right between my eyes this time.
Every sound in the warehouse blurs—the hum of the fluorescent light, the distant clatter of tools, the faint metallic scent of oil and blood. All I can think is: God, if this is it. Let me go out like a man.
“You still won’t give her up?” he murmurs.
I hold his stare. “She’s not a rat. She’s the best forger Marquez will ever find.”
The silence stretches until my heartbeat feels too loud in my ears.
Then his finger tightens—a hair, a breath.
And I don’t flinch.
Because folding now would save me and murder her.
CRACK.
The round slams into the concrete beside my head, close enough that grit slices my cheek and heat brushes my skin. The ringing comes next—a high, metallic whine that pushes the world underwater.
But I don’t move. Don’t flinch. Don’t break.
Paco studies me with a slow, assessing tilt of his head. “Still nothing,” he murmurs. “Man takes a bullet to the wall and doesn’t blink.”
I breathe once, steady. “Not so smart, are you?”
The gun lifts again, sight lining up with the space between my eyes. “Last chance.”
“She’s not a threat,” I say, pulse hammering, voice unshaken. “She’s not working for anyone. And if she’s left Vegas, it’s going to be your head Marquez will want on a platter.”
The words hang there, thin as wire.
Paco doesn’t answer. He just watches me, eyes narrowing, like he’s weighing whether I’m brave… or already dead.
The men along the walls shift their weight. One of them exhales. Another lowers his eyes.
Paco lowers the gun, smirking. “No hard feelings, hombre. You know how this works.”
The penny drops a second before I hear Italian leather on concrete behind me and catch the scent of Cuban cigar smoke.
This wasn’t Paco trying to bait me. It was ceremony. Rite of passage. The final measure before a lieutenant steps into deeper loyalty.
Like he was listening in, Marquez’s voice fills the entire room like a change in weather.
He steps in close enough that only I hear him. “If you had betrayed her—even a whisper of hesitation—I would have ended this today.”
His meaning is clear: Not ended me. Ended her.
“The arrangement stands. She will marry you. Today is the last day anyone questions her loyalty.”
His eyes harden. “Or yours.”
Adena
My stomach churns, acid climbing my throat, but Valentina's suite hums with forced celebration. Attendants circle me like vultures dressed in Chanel—adjusting hairpins, smoothing lace, dabbing lipstick with surgical precision.
A makeup artist leans in close, her breath mint-sharp, curling my eyelashes with heated metal that comes too near my eye.
I don't flinch. Can't. Not with an audience of harpies perched on the velvet sofas behind me, watching every micro-expression.
Upper-level cartel wives, I assume—the kind who've never had to pull a trigger themselves, just women who smile for cameras and know exactly how to get blood out of silk.
I sit rigid in front of the gilt-edged mirror while cold fingers work the last pearl button down my spine.
"I haven't seen Jagger." I keep my voice light, casual, like I'm asking about a misplaced earring.
Valentina doesn't look up from her phone. "He'll be here." Her tone drips honey, practiced and poisonous. "A little bruised, perhaps, but he'll understand after the reception."
The women behind me titter—soft, knowing laughter that makes my skin crawl.
I force myself to join them, lips curving into something that might pass for amusement. "Nothing that'll show in the photos, I hope?"
Valentina's face splits into a delighted grin. "Don't worry, mija. Marquez gave them strict orders—be gentle."
Gentle. My pulse hammers against my ribs, so loud I'm certain they can hear it. The makeup artist dabs powder under my eyes, and I wonder if she can feel how fast my heart's racing through my skin.
Someone materializes with a champagne flute, bubbles rising in pale gold columns.
Valentina waves them away with a flick of her wrist and steps closer, circling me like a predator inspecting prey.
Her eyes rake over every detail—the fall of the veil, the angle of my shoulders, the tremble I'm trying desperately to hide in my hands.
Her voice softens, almost genuine. "You've done what no one else could—gotten him this far. There were others, you know, before you. None of them came close."
The words slide between my ribs like a blade, precise and cold. Others. Women who tried and failed to catch the attention of Marquez… or, more likely, his wife.
I turn my head just enough to catch her reflection in the mirror, forcing curiosity into my expression instead of the dread clawing up my spine. "Gotten him this far to what, exactly?"
Her smile doesn't waver, just deepens—crimson lips that look like they've been dipped in blood.
The room shrinks. I can hear everything—the soft hiss of the garment steamer in the corner, the whisper of silk as someone adjusts my train, my own heartbeat pounding in my ears like a countdown.
I try again, lighter this time, like we're sharing secrets over coffee. "I’d love to know."
Valentina studies me, tilting her head slightly, deciding how much to reveal, how much I've already guessed.
"Let's just say he's moving up the line.
" She smooths an invisible wrinkle from my sleeve, her touch lingering a fraction too long.
"And every man at that level needs a woman who can keep up, who can handle the administration aspect. "
Silas's warning crashes through my mind—you become evidence.
I keep my voice low, teasing, like I'm in on the joke. "So that's why you wanted a forger?"
Her smile sharpens. “Always the clever girl. But tonight isn't about business. It's about presentation." She steps back, admiring her work—me, dressed and decorated like a prize. "All will be revealed at the reception."
Confirmation without confession.
My hands smooth down the silk of my skirt, fingers trembling just slightly. I hide it by adjusting the fall of fabric. "Then I want to see him before it starts. Before—"
"That would be bad luck." Her tone shifts—still sweet, but edged with steel. Final. "Finish your makeup. I'll send someone for you when it's time."
Jagger
I stand at the front of the chapel, every muscle in my body coiled tight beneath the tailored suit they forced me into an hour ago.
The polished marble floors throw back fractured reflections of chandeliers dripping crystal—too bright, too perfect, too much like a stage set for an execution dressed up as a celebration.
Sweat crawls down my spine despite the aggressive air conditioning. My ribs scream with every shallow breath. I shift my weight carefully, testing how much I can move without showing weakness. Not much.
The room pulses with danger disguised as festivity.
Cartel wives perch on gilt chairs like jeweled birds of prey, their eyes sharp and assessing.
Lieutenants line the walls in expensive suits, hands folded, faces neutral—but I see the bulges under their jackets, the way they track every movement.
Bodyguards stand at each exit like sentries, and I've already counted them. Twelve. More in the hallway.
Marquez sits in the front row, Valentina beside him in crimson silk, both watching me with satisfied smiles, like they're admiring their handiwork.
My sidearm is gone, confiscated under the pretense of respect for the ceremony. I'm a federal agent standing unarmed in a room packed with the most dangerous men in three states, and every single one of them is carrying.
If I live long enough to write a memoir, this is going in it.
I force air into my lungs, ribs protesting, and scan the room again. Every exit blocked. Every angle covered. I catch the glint of a phone screen—one of the lieutenants recording, probably streaming this to someone higher up.
There's nowhere to go. No play to make. Not with this many guns in the room and mine sitting in some safe two floors up.