Page 133 of Jagger's Remorse
"So, what's your plan?" I interject before this becomes a family massacre. "You'll show Eduardo the evidence and hope he names you heir?"
"Oh no." Pablo's smile returns despite the pain. "She's going to kill Eduardo. Just like I planned. And then, tragically, she'll die in the resulting power struggle. Leaving me, the grieving uncle, to pick up the pieces."
"That's insane."
"That's how destiny works." He tears a strip from his shirt, makeshift bandages his shoulder. "Twenty years I've waited. Twenty years of watching Eduardo favor outsiders over family. First Miguel, then thisputa."
He turns to me. "Which brings us to you, Mister Morales. I have a proposition."
"Not interested."
"Hear me out. Kill her now, in front of everyone, and Iron Veins keeps its territory. Your people live. Your club prospers under new management."
"Fuck you."
"Or," he continues like I hadn't spoken, "refuse, and I release everything to Eduardo. He'll burn your club to the ground. Kill everyone you've ever cared about. All for a piece of ass who was always meant to die."
I look at Scarlett. See the resignation in her eyes. The acceptance.
She thinks I'm going to do it, thinks I'm going to choose the club over her.
"What guarantee do I have?" I ask Pablo.
"My word. And this." He holds up a phone with his good hand. "One call to Eduardo. That's all it takes. But if she dies now, by your hand, the call never gets made."
I move closer to Scarlett. She doesn't back away. Just watches me with those amber eyes that started all this.
"I'm sorry," I tell her.
"I know," she whispers. "It's okay. Save them."
I pull her close, one hand tangling in her hair.
"Any last words?" Pablo asks, enjoying this.
"Yeah," I say, and kiss her.
Hard. Desperate. A goodbye kiss that tastes like regret and necessity.
My other hand finds the knife at my belt.
"I love you," I whisper against her mouth.
"I know," she breathes back. Then softer, so soft only I can hear, "Left side. Two inches below the shirt hem."
Then I drive the blade between her ribs.
She gasps, eyes going wide. Blood bubbles up between her lips.
"I'm sorry," I repeat as she sags against me. "I'm so fucking sorry."
But her hand finds mine on the knife handle. Squeezes. And I realize—she's controlling the angle. Guiding the blade. Just like before. Just like she did in the warehouse with Diego.
Missing everything vital by millimeters.
"Good boy," she whispers, so soft only I can hear. Then louder, pained, “You bastard! You fucking?—"
She collapses, taking the knife with her.
