Chapter 24
Twenty-Four
Jagger
The congratulations blur together—hands clapping my shoulder, laughter too loud, too sharp around the edges.
Valentina sweeps in first, her smile radiant enough to burn. Marquez trails behind her, tux crisp, eyes cold.
“Tonight,” she says, lifting her glass, “we celebrate not just love, but legacy. The reception will be held in the Skyview Ballroom. Nine o’clock sharp.”
A wave of people surges around us. Cameras flash.
Some cartel lieutenants, a few corporate faces I half-recognize from dossiers, everyone pretending this is a society wedding instead of a coronation.
I catch glimpses of Adena—veil gone, face pale but composed—before she’s swallowed by Valentina’s attendants.
Every smile feels like it’s been rehearsed for weeks.
Marquez’s hand clamps down on my shoulder. “Come. Just a few signatures to make it official.”
He steers me and Adena toward a side door near the chapel. A long table waits, lined with folders, pens, and a notary who doesn’t look old enough to drink.
Valentina doesn’t bother with ceremony here; she slides a folder across to me with a cool smile. “Paperwork before the party. You understand how business goes.”
Marquez gestures toward the stack of papers on the table, gold seal gleaming under the chandelier.
When I hesitate, he laughs, clapping a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Don’t look so serious. It’s formality. A few signatures, a little paperwork — makes you look good to investors, makes us all look clean. Vegas loves a good photo op.”
He slides the pen across the table. “Sign, and enjoy the reception.”
Adena’s fingers twitch in her lap. Her eyes are glued to the documents in front of me.
I glance them over — corporate seals, board minutes, a few lines about officer appointments and controlling interest. Legal fluff, from the look of it. Something to sell the image that I’m officially part of the family business.
Valentina’s watching too closely. I force a smile, lean into the act. “Legitimacy,” I echo. “Can’t argue with that.”
She smiles back, slow and sharp. “Exactly. You’re one of us now.”
My stomach drops. The words sound like a verdict, not a celebration. Sweat pricks the back of my neck despite the air conditioning.
I nod, force my jaw to unclench, but my shoulders stay tight and my breathing's too shallow.
Every instinct I've honed over years undercover is screaming ambush, but I can’t see where they’re hiding.
Adena
Jagger picks up the pen.
His hand hovers over the signature line. My fingers dig into the armrest of my chair, nails biting into leather.
We're not being promoted.
This isn't a formality. This isn't just paperwork to make the wedding look legitimate.
If he signs, we’re bound not just by marriage vows but by a legal web designed to strangle us the moment it tightens.
I understand what Silas must have discovered. Why they needed forgers “auditioning,” and it wasn’t just for the pill mill.
Every signature he's about to scribble will tie us—legally, permanently, retroactively—to everything Marquez has ever touched. Every front business. Every shell company. Every dirty transaction that's been run through those operations for years.
The marriage license will already be filed—witnesses in place, county clerk probably paid off or threatened.
The corporate transfers are likely queued up, ready to go live the second we sign.
Board minutes backdated. Operating agreements rewritten.
Our names slotted into every position of legal responsibility.
Bank accounts will open under our signatures. Property deeds will transfer. Power-of-attorney documents will activate. And somewhere, photos and videos from tonight—smiling, celebrating, looking every bit like eager participants—will be carefully archived as proof.
If the Feds come knocking, they'll find us. Not Marquez. Not Valentina. Us.
Jagger's hand moves. The pen touches paper.
I have to do something. Send him a signal no one else in the room will pick up on.
My hand rests on the polished mahogany. My fingernail finds the wood grain and taps. Once. Pause. Three times. Pause. Once. Pause. Three times.
S-O-S.
Again. Deliberate. Precise.
Tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap.
Jagger’s eyes flick down to my hand, then back up to my face.
Our eyes lock.
For a heartbeat, nothing moves. Not him. Not me. Not the air between us.
Then, slowly—so slowly the movement feels like it takes years—he sets the pen down.
Marquez straightens. Valentina's smile freezes.
Everything happens at once.
The fire alarm screams—sudden, deafening, splitting the air like a siren.
Sprinklers burst to life overhead, raining down in violent sheets.
Water soaks through my dress, my hair, plastering fabric to skin.
The smoke detectors shriek in harmony with the alarm, a cacophony of chaos that makes my ears ring.
Jagger explodes. His fingers close around Marquez’s wrist before he can clear the shoulder holster. In one fluid motion, he wrenches the gun free.
Valentina's mouth opens—to shout, to scream, to call for guards—but I'm inside her space before sound can form. I drive the heel of my palm toward her sternum, not gentle, not controlled. Her breath escapes out of her lungs in a satisfying gasp.
I pivot, using her own momentum, and bring her down hard. Her knees buckle. Her body crumples like someone cut her strings.
The notary bolts for the door.
Jagger's voice cracks like a whip. "Don't move."
The startled notary freezes mid-step, hands half-raised, eyes wide and terrified.
Marquez is breathing hard, staring at his own gun in Jagger's hand like he can't quite process how it got there. His face darkens—rage, humiliation, the shock of losing control in a single second.
"You've made a catastrophic mistake," he says quietly.
"Maybe," Jagger says. "But we're leaving. Now."
"Where's the exit?" I ask.
"Service corridor," Marquez says, his voice dripping venom. "But you won't make it fifty feet."
"We'll take our chances," Jagger says.
The alarm screams outside. The sprinklers are doing their job—creating chaos, creating cover, creating the only window we're ever going to get.
I move to the door and crack it open. The hallway beyond is filled with guests moving toward exits. Staff directing traffic.
"Now," Jagger says to Marquez. "Walk."
Marquez doesn't move.
Jagger growls something guttural in Spanish, which makes Marquez blanch. Slowly, he stands. His eyes never leave Jagger's face. There's something in that gaze—a promise, a threat, a vow. I will kill you for this.
But he walks toward the door.
Jagger
We burst through the emergency exit into the parking lot.
Behind us, the alarm still screams inside the building. Around us, nothing but parked cars and darkness and the sound of our breathing.
Marquez's eyes are scanning, calculating, waiting for his bodyguards to appear.
"Keep moving," I tell him.
Adena’s one step ahead of me, heading towards a row of bikes, outpacing me, hitching her dress with one hand while concealing the weapon in her other.
She picks an older Harley and slips off her heel. “Give me 30 seconds.”
Our eyes meet for one second, then she uses the heel to wedge off the side panel and plunges her fingers into the cavity.
"You’re a dead man, Jagger," Marquez hisses beside me. "Nowhere you can hide that I won't find you. You'll spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder, wondering when I'm coming."
“Shut up,” I growl.
He laughs, his eyes flicking to the left. “Thirty seconds before he shoots you both.”
Paco.
Coming in fast at an angle that places Adena in his line of fire. His hand is already on his weapon, and he’s preparing to aim.
I swing Marquez around, using him as a shield and a barrier between us and Adena.
“Move and you’re the reason he dies,” I growl.
Paco spits out a curse, fury in his eyes.
The engine coughs, just once, loud enough to echo off the chapel walls. Paco’s hand twitches; he shifts his weight. I don’t think. I just move.
I yell at Adena to cover Marquez, shove him aside, and take Paco full-force before he can fire. We hit the asphalt hard, both our guns skittering out of reach. He comes up swinging, pure fury and blood.
Now it’s just me and him.
And I’m not letting him anywhere near her.
His fist comes at my face, and I roll, taking it on my shoulder instead. Fire shoots down my arm. I drive my elbow up toward his temple, and he shifts, blocks it with his forearm. We're a tangle of wet clothes and desperation, both of us fighting for position.
He gets a hand around my throat.
I see black spots. My ribs are screaming. I drive my knee up. He twists, takes it on his hip instead of where I aimed, but it breaks his grip. I gasp air back into my lungs and don't waste time thinking. I move on instinct—grab his hair, pull his head down, bring my forehead up to meet his face.
The crack echoes through the parking lot.
He staggers back half a step, and I don't give him space to recover. I drive forward, tackling him against the nearest car. The impact dents the door, but he takes the brunt of it. He goes down on one knee.
I'm on him. My fist comes down at his face and he blocks, but the impact still rattles his brain. Again. He gets his hands up, tries to cover, but I'm past thinking now.
His hands come up to grab my wrist, but I'm already pivoting, using his own grip against him. I wrench my arm free and come back with an elbow strike. It connects with his cheekbone, and he goes down hard.
“Jagger!” Adena yells. “We need to move!”
With her words spurring me on, I drive my fist down at his face one last time. His head snaps back against the asphalt, and he quits moving.