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“Profit,” I say, watching the dancers weave their magic, entrancing every set of eyes that dare to follow their siren-like gyrations. “And power.”

Just as I’m about to raise my glass to toast to our imminent victory, a discordant note strikes the electric atmosphere. Two patrons, fueled by too much alcohol or too little sense, start to exchange heated words. Their argument slices through the thumping bass, drawing unwanted attention.

“Dammit,” I mutter under my breath, my gaze narrowing.

The escalation is swift. Postures stiffen, fingers jab the air, and voices rise trying to drown out the rock anthem blaring from the speakers.

“Looks like trouble,” Tank observes, his concern barely concealed by the casual tilt of his head. His protective nature is always at a simmer, ready to boil over at any sign of conflict.

“Let ‘em talk,” Diablo says, but his hand inches towards his cut, instinctively ready for whatever comes next.

“Keep it cool,” I yell, my eyes locked on the brewing storm. To the men at my side, I add, “We don’t jump unless we have to.”

“Since when do you shy away from a fight?” Fang asks, eyeing me suspiciously.

“Since I started running a legitimate business, not an underground fight club,” I snap back.

Bones shifts uneasily, casting a wary glance towards the agitators. “Sure you don’t want me to step in?”

“Not yet.” I keep my eyes fixed on the pair. Their quarrel has become a spectacle, just a hair’s breadth away from an all-out brawl.

“Give it another couple of seconds. See if they can work their shit out,” I suggest, but my hand hovers near my sidearm.

The air crackles with tension, thick as the humidity outside. I watch as what started as a harsh exchange of words between two boozed-up patrons suddenly explodes. A fist rockets through the air, connecting with a sickening thud against someone’s cheekbone, and like a spark to gasoline, the Voodoo Velvet erupts.

“Here we go!” Vapor slides out of the booth, quickly followed by the rest of the men.

“Fuck!” I’m on his heels as we rush into the melee.

The punch-drunk symphony of grunts and curses, the shuffle of feet, and gasps from onlookers become a discordant melody that thrills something primal inside me. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a bar brawl, but it’s time to reset the clock.

Coming out swinging, I’m ready to show everyone in NOLA that you don’t fuck around in one of our clubs unless you want to get your face bashed in. By morning, people will know that Voodoo Velvet isn’t like most clubs, and we sure as hell aren’t like most owners. This brawl might be bad for business tonight, but it will be good for our reputation. After tonight, no one will dare fuck around in our club again. But first… I’ve got some faces to pulverize.

Chapter 2: Isabella

The sun dips low behind the twisted cypress trees, casting long shadows across my quaint cottage. I’m stirring a pot of mole sauce, the rich aroma reminding me of Abuela’s kitchen, when the crunch of gravel outside announces an unexpected visitor. A chill of foreboding skitters down my spine before I even glance out the window.

“Isabella,” Juan calls out as he strides up the path, his voice cutting through the stillness of the evening with the same sharpness as his footsteps on the stones.

“Hola,hermano.” I acknowledge my brother before setting down the wooden spoon with a clatter. I turn the stove off. He never comes to the cottage, so whatever this is won’t be quick. I don’t want to burn the sauce when it’s so close to being perfect.

The screen door squeaks as I push it open. Stepping onto the porch, my heart pounds in rhythm with the cicadas thrumming in the background.

Juan stands at the bottom of the steps, his presence as imposing as the fortified walls that encircle our family’s land. His dark eyes lock onto mine. “I need your help with something.”

I fold my arms across my chest.

“What do you need?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady despite the undercurrent of anxiety.

“Help with the family business,” he replies curtly. That term alone is enough to send a wave of unease crashing over me. Family business means cartel business—Los Serpientes de Cristal’s business.

“Juan, you know I don’t—” I start, but he cuts me off.

“Hermana, remember who you are. Remember who we are,” he interrupts, his words heavy with the weight of obligation. “You owe it to the family.”

“Owe it to the family?” I retort, anger flaring within me. “Or owe it to you?”

His expression hardens, and I see theEl Jefemask fall into place—the one that reminds everyone he’s not just my brother, he’s the head of the biggest drug cartel in New Orleans.