Page 154 of Jagger's Remorse
"Digger's never in the clear," I correct. "But now he's the hunter instead of the hunted. Much better position."
"And us?" Jagger asks. "The club?"
"Safer than we've been in years. Territory secured. Rivals eliminated. FBI looking elsewhere." I stretch, my back protesting. "Eduardo would say this is when we're most vulnerable. When we think we've won."
"You think we haven't?"
"I think winning is temporary. There's always another threat. Another rival. Another ambitious prosecutor." I think of mydaughter, growing inside me. "The question is whether we're strong enough to face what comes next."
"We are," Jagger says with certainty. "You made sure of that."
"We all did. Every choice, every death, every alliance led here." I stand, ready to head home. "But you're right. We're stronger now. Strong enough to protect what matters."
"Speaking of which," Squirrel stands too. "Church tomorrow. Need to discuss security for when the baby comes. Hospital protocols, safe houses, the works."
"Already have a list," I tell him. "Including which doctors at the hospital are on our payroll and which nurses know to look the other way."
"Of course you do," he chuckles. "Sometimes I forget you've been planning ten steps ahead since you got here."
"Twenty steps," I correct. "And that was before I had a daughter to protect. Now? I'm planning her whole life."
We leave the chapel, passing through the common room where Mel, Baylee, and Raven are cleaning up baby shower debris.
They wave us off when we offer to help.
"Go rest," Raven orders. "Growing a human's hard work."
Outside, the night air is cool against my skin. Jagger helps me onto his bike—getting more difficult with my belly—and we head home.
Our house, bought with cartel money but made ours.
As we ride, I think about the journey.
Five years ago, I watched my father die.
Today, a baby shower was thrown for me by women who would have killed me before.
"You okay back there?" Jagger calls over the engine.
"Perfect," I call back, meaning it.
Valentina kicks again, strong and insistent.
My hand goes to my belly, protective and proud.
She'll be born into violence, yes.
But also into love.
Into family. Into an empire built on blood but maintained with loyalty.
At home, Jagger helps me off the bike and into the house.
The nursery is nearly finished—painted deep purple instead of pink, because even my old man agreed pink was too cliché for a cartel princess.
"She's going to be extraordinary," Jagger says, wrapping his arms around me from behind, hands resting on my belly.
"She'll have to be. This world doesn't suffer ordinary."
