Page 90 of Jagger's Remorse
My blood chills.
"You know what this means," Eduardo says.
"You want me to mark him," I realize.
"I want you to show where your loyalty lies," Eduardo corrects. "He killed Miguel. There must be payment. Not death—you've earned him that mercy. But he must be marked. And you must do it."
"And if I refuse?" I ask.
"Then you're no longer under my protection," Eduardo says simply. "Neither of you. I'll let the streets know Scarlett Delgado and Jackson Morales are fair game. How long do you think you'll last?"
Not long.
Every cartel soldier, every ambitioussicariolooking to make a name—they'd come for us.
"Where?" I ask quietly.
"His chest," Eduardo decides. "Over the heart. So everyone knows he belongs to Sinaloa now."
I pick up the brand, feel its weight.
"Here?" I ask.
"Privacy is for family," Eduardo says. "You chose him over us. So you mark him publicly."
I look at Jagger.
See him understand.
See him accept.
"Do it," he says quietly. "It's just skin."
But it's not.
It's ownership.
It's marking him as cartel property.
It's everything he's fought against his whole life.
And he's accepting it.
For me.
"I need to heat it," I say.
Eduardo's man brings a torch.
I watch the metal grow red, orange, and white.
My hands don't shake.
Can't afford to.
A shaky hand means a messy brand.
More pain.
