Page 1 of Jagger's Remorse
PROLOGUE
Scarlett
Five Years Ago…
The vanilla candle on Papa's desk flickers when I push open his office door, and I know something's wrong before I even see his face.
He's never home on Thursdays.
Thursday means Fresno, checking on the grow houses, making sure the transportation routes run smooth.
Thursday means I have the house to myself, can blast my music while I study without Mama telling me it'll damage my hearing.
Except Mama's been dead for three years, and Papa still keeps her vanilla candles burning like she's going to walk through the door any minute.
But here he is at 11 PM, feeding papers into the shredder like his life depends on it. Maybe it does.
"Papa?"
He spins around, and I've never seen Miguel Delgado afraid.
Not when the Norteños tried to muscle in on our territory.
Not when the DEA raided our legitimate businesses.
Not even when Mama was dying and the doctors said there was nothing more they could do.
But right now, his face is the color of old bones, and his hands shake as he reaches for me.
"Mija, what are you doing here? You're supposed to be at Berkeley."
"My professor canceled Friday's lecture." I set my backpack down, my Criminal Justice textbooks thudding against the hardwood.
Ironic that I was just studying RICO predicates, learning how the feds build cases against men like my father. "Thought I'd surprise you."
The irony isn't lost on me—Miguel Delgado's daughter studying pre-law at UC Berkeley.
Papa always said the best criminals understand the system from the inside."Know your enemy better than your friend, mija. That's how you survive in this life."
"You need to leave." He grabs my shoulders, his gold ring cutting into my skin.
The one with the double-headed eagle, marking him as Sinaloa royalty.
Not just any soldier—nephew to Eduardo Vasquez himself, plaza boss for all of Northern California. "Now, Scarlett. Take my car and?—"
The shredder jams.
Smoke rises from the machine, and half-destroyed bank statements scatter across his desk.
Swiss accounts.
Cayman Islands.
Numbers that don't match the books he keeps for his primo in Culiacán.
My stomach drops. "Papa, what did you do?"
He looks at me, and for the first time in my nineteen years, my father looks old.
