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I watch as they pore over the layout of the drug cutting warehouse. Tank points out possible entry points, while Bones taps on the main entrance, the most heavily guarded area. Theirconversation is a low hum, punctuated by Diablo’s occasional questions.

“We need to coordinate the extraction,” Vapor says, pointing to the textile factory on the other blueprint. “Timing has to be precise.”

As their strategy unfolds, I offer what I hope are helpful suggestions. The men listen to me, adjusting their strategy slightly to accommodate my ideas. No one has ever listened to me this closely before. I feel respected in a way I never felt with my own family. Juan never took time out of his day to pay any attention to my thoughts and feelings. This is a refreshing change.

Ice leans over the map. His hair catches the light, and something inside me tightens. He’s putting himself and his friends in danger because of me. I have no doubt now that they’re good men who are trying to do the right thing. They wouldn’t risk their lives if they were terrible people. My brother would never put his neck out to save anyone, but these men would.

“Every second counts,” Bones says, studying the strategy mapped out on the blueprints. “We can’t afford to miss our entry time. If one warehouse warns the other, we’re fucked.”

“Agreed. And once we have the kids and women, we move fast,” Vapor says, his jaw set. “No one gets left behind.”

“Right,” Ice murmurs, and the others echo their agreement.

The stakes couldn’t be higher, and as I listen to them lay out the escape plan for the children, I’m struck by the weight of our impending actions. There’s no room for error. No second chances. Lives will be lost if anything goes wrong. I’ll never forgive myself if any of the people we’re trying to save die because of me. Right now, they’re trapped in a terrible situation, but at least they’re still alive.

My fingers trace the lines on the blueprint, my eyes scanning every detail, every mark we’ve made. “I think it’ll work,” I say, more to convince myself than them.

Vapor’s gaze sharpens. “That’s not good enough. We need certainty.”

“She’s given us everything she’s got,” Ice says, coming to my defense. “From here on out, if shit goes south, that’s on us.”

“Nothing’s going to go wrong,” Bones says. “This isn’t the first time we’ve broken into a cartel warehouse, and it won’t be the last.”

“It’s settled then. Fang, Bones, and Tank, you guys will be in charge of the crew going to the women.” Vapor’s orders are crisp and clear. “Ice, Diablo, and I will handle the kids. We do this clean, no mistakes.”

“Where are you taking them?” I ask.

“Somewhere safe. We never disclose safehouse locations to anyone outside the club. Also, it’s better than you don’t know,” Ice says. “We’ve got this, Bella. We will get those women and kids out of there. Trust me.”

Ice’s confidence is infectious. For a moment, I allow myself to believe in a future where the women and children are no longer trapped in the cartel’s shadow. If everything goes well, tomorrow will be the last day the women have to cut drugs and the kids have to sew clothing.

Vapor disbands the meeting, sending us out of the room. The men’s voices fade as they head upstairs to get some shut eye. Blue steps into the hall from the kitchen. She flashes a dazzling smile at Vapor, who steps to her side. He kisses her softly. “Babe, can you get Isabella something to eat?”

As president of the MC, his authority is absolute, yet there’s a softness in his tone when he speaks to his wife. He clearly respects her.

“Of course. Do you want anything?” Blue asks.

“I’m good. Thanks, babe.”

“Come with me.” Blue smiles.

I follow her into the kitchen, where the scent of simmering spices envelops me in a homely embrace. A woman stands at the stove, stirring a large pot. Her spiky white hair defies gravity, while her muumuu dress adds a splash of color to the room. She reminds me instantly of my grandmother, with the same nurturing eyes and same smile that hints at untold stories.

“Babet, this is Isabella,” Blue says, introducing me.

“Here, chère, take a taste.” Babet hands me a wooden spoon dipped in gumbo, her accent rich with Louisiana’s soul.

I blow gently on the steaming liquid before tasting it. The flavors dance on my tongue, but something is missing. “It needs more salt,” I say after a moment.

Babet laughs, a sound like wind chimes on a breezy porch. “Exactly what I thought. You’ve got a good palate.”

“I learned it from my grandmother when I was growing up in Mexico. She was an excellent cook,” I say with pride.

“Do you still have her recipes?” Babet asks.

“I do. They’re not written down anywhere, but I have them all right here.” I put my hands over my heart.

“I’d love to learn a few,” Babet says. “I know many traditional creole dishes, but not Mexican. I’m always looking for new recipes, especially those that come from grandmothers.”