Page 3 of Jagger's Remorse
"Please," Papa says in English, then switches to Spanish. "Por favor, I can pay. I have money. Information. I know where Eduardo keeps?—"
"Miguel Delgado." The biker's voice is whiskey and gravel, and something low in my belly responds to it despite the terror flooding my veins. "You've been stealing from your employers."
"It's not what you think?—"
"Fifteen million, three hundred forty-two thousand." He recites the number like he's reading a grocery list. "Skimmedover six years. Very clever, using the agricultural shipments to hide the discrepancies. Eduardo might never have noticed if you hadn't gotten greedy with that last transfer."
"I have a daughter." Papa's voice cracks. "She's innocent. She doesn't know anything about the business?—"
"I know you have a daughter." Those dead eyes find mine, and I forget how to breathe. "Scarlett Maria Delgado. Nineteen. Pre-law at Berkeley. Dean's list. Volunteers at the legal aid clinic on weekends. Drives a white Honda Civic, license plate 7G394?—"
"Stop." The word tears from my throat.
He's been watching me.
This stranger, this killer, knows my class schedule.
Knows I volunteer on Thursday nights, which is why I'm usually not home.
Knows I grab coffee at the same shop every morning before I head to campus.
"Just let her go," Papa begs, and I've never heard him beg for anything.
Not even when Mama was dying and he was praying to every saint he could name. "She's only nineteen. She's going to be a lawyer, help our people the right way. Please, I'll do anything?—"
"No." I step out from behind Papa, my chin raised.
If I'm going to die, I won't do it hiding. "If you're going to kill us, look me in the eyes while you do it."
Something flickers in those dark depths.
Interest? Respect?
He studies me like I'm a puzzle he can't quite solve.
His left hand twitches—not toward a weapon, but toward his chest.
Touching something under his shirt.
"Brave little princess," he murmurs, and I hate how my body responds to his voice. "Just like your father said you'd be."
"You talked to him about me?"
"He talks about nothing else. Every meeting, every drop. Scarlett's grades. Scarlett's future. Scarlett's going to change the world." His lips twist in something that might be a smile if it reached his eyes. "Scarlett's too good for this life."
"Mija, no?—"
"It's okay, Papa." I take his hand, the one with the eagle ring. "I'm here."
The biker raises his gun, and I see his jaw clench.
There's a moment—half a heartbeat—where his finger hesitates on the trigger.
His other hand goes to his chest, touching something under his shirt.
A cross? Dog tags?
Whatever it is, he grips it like an anchor.
