Page 97 of Jagger's Remorse
She moves to the wall map, tracing the proposed route with one finger.
The movement makes her shirt ride up slightly, revealing the knife scar on her lower back—a souvenir from her time with Diego.
Martinez's partner, a sleazy fuck named Ortiz, hasn't stopped staring at her ass since they walked in.
His eyes track every movement, lingering on the curve of her hips when she stands to point at the map on the wall.
I'm about to intervene when Scarlett handles it herself.
"Mr. Ortiz," she says without turning around, still studying the map like she doesn't know exactly where his eyes are focused. "Are you unclear about something?"
"No,señorita. Just... admiring the view."
The temperature in the room shifts.
I straighten from my position by the door, hand automatically checking the Glock at my hip.
She turns then, slow and predatory.
Each movement deliberate.
She leans against the table, making sure the overhead light catches the crow pendant, making sure they see exactly who she belongs to.
"Admiring?" Her voice drops to that dangerous purr I've heard before. Usually right before someone bleeds. "How sweet. You know what my old man does to men who disrespect me? Let's just say the last one needed reconstructive surgery. On his whole face."
The room temperature drops ten degrees.
I watch Ortiz's face pale as he processes the threat.
"Just a compliment," Ortiz backpedals, suddenly finding the contract fascinating.
"Was it?" She tilts her head, studying him like a specimen pinned to a board. "Because from where I stand, it sounded likedisrespect. And disrespecting me is disrespecting the Iron Veins. Which is disrespecting Sinaloa."
She lets that hang in the air like a noose waiting for a neck.
"Unless you'd like to explain to Eduardo Vasquez why his goddaughter felt unsafe in a business meeting?"
Martinez shoots his partner a look that promises he’ll pay for his mistake later.
His jaw works like he's chewing glass.
"Our apologies, Miss Delgado. Ortiz forgets himself."
"Men often do around pretty things." She straightens, all business again, but I catch the way her hand ghosts over the knife hidden at her hip. "Now, about the distribution schedule..."
She returns to the contracts, breaking down transportation windows and pickup protocols like she didn't just threaten to have them skinned alive.
Professional. Efficient. Terrifying.
Twenty minutes later, she has them eating out of her palm.
The Nevada route is ours—well, Sinaloa's through us—with better terms than I'd hoped for.
She negotiated an extra five percent off the top and got them to cover transportation insurance.
They leave with signed agreements and carefully hidden fear.
Martinez pauses at the door, gives me a look that says he knows exactly how dangerous my woman is.
