Page 25 of Jagger’s Remorse (Iron Veins MC #1)

CHAPTER TEN

Scarlett

Eduardo's compound in Mexicali sprawls like a fortress against the desert, all white walls and armed guards.

The last time I was here, I was twenty and still believed in justice through law books.

Still thought I could honor my father's memory by becoming the lawyer he'd dreamed I'd be.

Now I'm twenty-five, covered in scars, and arriving with my uncle's blood still under my fingernails.

"Nervous?" Jagger asks as our convoy approaches the gates.

His hand finds mine across the console, thumb brushing over my knuckles.

"No." I reach across and touch the eagle ring hanging next to his crow pendant. "This is what I was made for."

The guards wave us through without searching.

Family doesn't get searched.

Family gets escorted straight to Eduardo's office, where he waits like a spider in his web.

The walk through the compound brings back memories.

These halls where I learned to become what I am.

That courtyard where Diego first made me kill.

The medical wing where I recovered from "lessons" that left scars.

Eduardo's office hasn't changed.

Same massive desk. Same wall of windows overlooking his empire. Same vanilla candles that remind me of Papa.

But Eduardo has changed.

He looks older than six months ago.

Thinner. His suit—always impeccable—hangs loose on his frame, but his eyes remain sharp as obsidian.

" Mija ," he greets me, not rising from behind his desk. "I hear you've been busy."

" Tío ." I kiss his cheek, note how his skin feels papery, how his cologne can't quite mask the sick-sweet smell of decay. "Pablo sends his regards. Or would, if he could still speak."

A ghost of a smile crosses his lips. "Show me."

I signal Jagger, who brings in the body bag.

Two of Eduardo’s men carry it in, their faces green at the smell.

We unzip it enough to show Pablo's face, throat still gaping from my knife.

Eduardo studies his nephew's corpse with the same emotion he'd show bad produce.

He stands, walks around the desk to get a better look.

His movements are careful, controlled, but I catch the slight tremor in his hands.

"Tell me," he orders.

So I do. Every detail. The betrayal. The connection to Three Devils and Sombra. The attempted manipulation. How he'd sold me to the Iron Veins thinking I'd kill Diego, position myself close to Eduardo, then die conveniently.

"He thought I was weak," I finish. "Thought because I was a woman, because I loved my father, I could be manipulated."

"And what did you teach him?"

"That Delgado women might love deeply, but we kill deeper."

Eduardo laughs, a sound like grinding glass that turns into a cough he can't quite suppress. "Your mother would be proud."

The mention of her makes my chest tight. "You knew her?"

"Before your father stole her away." Something flickers in his eyes—regret? Lost opportunity? "She was magnificent when angry. Fire and beauty combined. I see her in you."

He moves to the window, and I notice how he braces himself against the frame. "I'm dying, mija ."

The words hang between us like a blade.

" Tío —"

"Cancer. Pancreatic. Three months, maybe six if God has a sense of humor." He turns back to me, backlit by the desert sun. "Which means decisions must be made."

"About succession."

"About tests." He presses a button on his desk. "Bring him in."

The doors open.

Guards drag in a man I recognize—Felipe Herrera, one of Eduardo's most trusted lieutenants.

He's beaten, bloody, but still breathing.

His expensive suit is torn, revealing cartel tattoos across his chest.

"Felipe has been skimming," Eduardo explains conversationally. "Small amounts, but theft is theft. Handle it."

A test. Everything with Eduardo is a test.

I study Felipe, see the fear in his eyes.

Once, that might have mattered. Once, I might have hesitated.

"Please," Felipe gasps through broken teeth. "I have children—three daughters. They need me?—"

"So did my father." I pull my knife, the one my father gave me. "Did that stop anyone?"

"I'll pay it back! Double! Triple! Just?—"

I move without hesitating in the slightest bit.

The blade finds his carotid, quick and clean.

Felipe drops, blood pooling on Eduardo's expensive Persian carpet, his final breath a wet gurgle.

"Good," Eduardo approves. "No hesitation. No weakness. You've learned well."

"I had excellent teachers."

"Yes. Diego, may he rot. Pablo, may he rot slower." He returns to his desk, stepping carefully around Felipe's spreading blood. "You killed them both."

Not a question.

"They outlived their usefulness."

"As we all do, eventually." He opens a drawer, pulls out a thick folder. "My will. My territories. My connections. All going to you."

"Why?"

"Because you're not just a killer, mija . You're a builder. You took your revenge and turned it into power. That's what the family needs." He slides the folder across. "Killing is easy. Any fool with a gun can destroy. But building? Creating something that lasts? That takes vision."

My throat tightens unexpectedly.

It's the first time anyone has seen me as more than a weapon since Papa died.

Even Jagger, who loves me, sees the monster first.

But Eduardo—Eduardo sees possibility.

Legacy. Future.

It's almost fatherly, this recognition, and I hate how much I crave it.

How much I still want someone to be proud of what I've built from my ruins.

I open the folder, scanning the contents.

Supply routes through seven states.

Connections in twelve countries.

Bank accounts with numbers that make my head spin.

An empire built on blood and product.

"There must be conditions."

"One. Prove the Iron Veins can handle expanded territory. Show me they're worthy of being Sinaloa's primary partner."

"And if they can't?"

"Then you find a club that can." His eyes bore into mine. "Family first. Always. The club is a tool. Useful, perhaps beloved, but still a tool. Never forget that."

"Understood."

"Good. Now, there's something else." He slides another folder across. "FBI. They're building cases against every MC in California. Task force specifically targeting organized crime connections."

I flip through the documents. Surveillance photos of various clubs. Witness lists with names I recognize. Financial tracking that's gotten frighteningly close to some of our operations. And one name that keeps appearing—Assistant U.S. Attorney Yuki Nakajima.

"She's ambitious," Eduardo notes. "Young. UC Berkeley law, top of her class. Thinks she can take down our entire network."

My stomach drops. Berkeley. My school. "When did she graduate?"

"Two years after you would have. Had you stayed that course."

The life I could have had. Should have had, if Papa had lived. Now twisted into this.

"What do you want me to do?"

"What you do best. Protect family interests." He leans back. "How is the queen's choice."

"You're already calling me queen?"

"What else would I call my heir?" He stands again, moves to a hidden safe. "There's one more thing. Something I've saved for the right moment."

He withdraws a small box, hands it to me with surprising reverence.

Inside, a ring. Not flashy—a simple band with an inscription: Familia sobre todo .

"This was your grandmother's. My mother's. She built the foundations of what we became." He takes the ring, slides it onto my right hand. "She'd approve of you, I think. She always said the women in our family were stronger than the men."

The weight of it—of legacy, of expectation—settles on my hand like destiny.

The jet back to Redding takes a couple of hours. Hours to plan. To process. To accept that in months, maybe weeks, I'll control one of the largest cartel operations in North America.

"You're quiet," Jagger observes as we cross back into California.

The desert has given way to mountains, then forests.

"Thinking about what comes next."

"Which is?"

My phone rings before I can answer. Unknown number.

"Hello?"

"Scarlett?" A woman's voice, shaky with fear. "It's Tina."

I put her on speaker so Jagger can hear. "You've got some balls calling me."

"I didn't have a choice. They said they'd protect me, but they lied. The FBI, they're using me?—"

"Where are you?"

"Motel 6 off Highway 5. Room 23. Please, I know I fucked up, but I have information. About the prosecutor. She's been watching your club. Watching Digger specifically."

"Why would I care?"

"Because she's not just building a case. She's obsessed. Has pictures of him all over her office. Follows him home. She's going to do something stupid, and when she does?—"

The line crackles with static.

"Tina?"

"Shit, someone's here. I can see headlights. Oh God, I think?—"

A door crashes open. Tina screams. Three shots, rapid succession. Then silence.

"Tina!" I shout.

A new voice comes on. Male. Professional. "Ms. Delgado. We'll leave the laptop. Consider it a professional courtesy. One powerhouse to another."

The line goes dead.

"What the fuck was that?" Jagger demands.

"Someone cleaning house. Or sending a message." I think about the voice. Familiar but disguised. "Call the others. We need to get there now."

We're still an hour out when we reach Poncho, Hammer, and Digger.

Tell them to meet us at the motel.

"Bring cleaning supplies," I add. "This won't be pretty."

The motel is exactly what you'd expect.

Desperate people making desperate choices behind thin walls and cheaper doors.

We approach room 23 carefully, but the door is already cracked open.

The smell hits first—blood, cordite, and death.

"Shit," Digger mutters.

Inside, Tina sprawls across the bed.

Two bullets to the head, execution-style. Professional. But the third shot went through her hand—defensive wound. She saw it coming.

But she left something. A laptop, still open. Still logged into an FBI database.

"Holy fuck," Hammer breathes, looking at the screen. "She downloaded everything."

Case files. Surveillance logs. Financial tracking. And yes, an entire folder dedicated to Digger.