Page 26 of Jagger’s Remorse (Iron Veins MC #1)

"Why me?" Digger asks, scrolling through photos of himself. At the compound. At bars. Coming out of his house. Some are date-stamped going back months. "What the fuck is this?"

I study the images closer. "Look at these angles. These aren't standard surveillance photos. Too artistic. Too..." I search for the word. "Personal."

"She's hunting," Hammer says. "But this isn't just professional. Look at the timestamps. She's following you on her own time."

"Obsessed," I agree. "And obsession makes people vulnerable."

"This is perfect," I realize. "She's already compromised. Already breaking protocol. We can use this."

"How?"

"Leave that to me. First, we need to clean this scene and get out. Then we plan."

We work efficiently. Body wrapped and removed. Room cleaned with bleach and fire. Laptop secured. Within an hour, it's like Tina never existed.

Back at the compound, I study the FBI files while Jagger paces.

"This is bigger than we thought," I tell him. "They're not just after Iron Veins. They're mapping the entire network. Our connections to Sinaloa, our routes, everything."

"Can we stop it?"

"Not stop. But redirect, maybe." I pull up Yuki Nakajima's file. "Berkeley law. Civil rights background. Turned federal prosecutor after her mentor was killed by cartel violence."

"She's on a crusade."

"Better. She's on a vendetta." I show him her personal notes about Digger. Pages and pages. "And vendettas make people stupid."

The next forty-eight hours are brutal.

Using the FBI intel Tina downloaded, I identify every informant, every weak link, every potential threat to Iron Veins.

Some we buy off—a prospect here, a hang-around there. Amazing what people will do for the right price.

Some we scare off—midnight visits, gentle reminders about family safety.

Some disappear entirely—fed to the desert or the ocean, depending on convenience.

But the real show is for Eduardo.

I orchestrate simultaneous hits on what remains of Three Devils and Sombra operations.

Seven locations across Northern California, all within a two-hour window.

The Three Devils' new clubhouse burns with them inside.

Their meth lab explodes, taking out half a city block.

Their gun warehouse becomes a war zone when Sombra soldiers arrive to find Iron Veins already there.

I make it look like cartel infighting, use soldiers Eduardo lent me, but have Iron Veins members visible enough to show our partnership is stronger than ever.

The media calls it the bloodiest weekend in California cartel history. Thirty-seven dead. Millions in drugs and weapons destroyed.

I call it spring cleaning.

"Jesus," Squirrel says when the dust settles, looking at news reports. "This was you?"

"This was us showing Eduardo we can protect his interests." I lean back in my chair. "We're now the only major club between Sacramento and the Oregon border."

"You did this for Eduardo?"

"I did this for us. Eduardo just gets to appreciate the show."

My phone rings. Eduardo. His voice is weaker than yesterday.

"Impressive, mija. Perhaps too impressive. The FBI woman has noticed."

"Let her notice. We have plans for her."

"Oh?"

"She's fixated on one of our members. Emotionally fucked in the head. It's only a matter of time before she crosses a line she can't come back from."

"And when she does?"

"We'll be waiting."

"Good. Come back to Mexico. Bring your officers. Time for formal arrangements."

"When?"

"Three days. Time..." He coughs, long and wet. "Time is not my friend."

***

Three days later, the entire Iron Veins leadership stands in Eduardo's compound.

He's pulled out all the stops—representatives from every major family, every connection, every pipeline.

The main hall has been transformed into something between a coronation and a cartel summit.

Men in thousand-dollar suits mingle with soldiers in tactical gear.

Languages mix—Spanish, English, Portuguese, Russian.

"Friends," Eduardo addresses the crowd from a throne-like chair, oxygen tank discretely hidden beside him. "You know me. You know I don't make decisions lightly."

Murmurs of agreement ripple through the assembly.

"Scarlett Delgado has proven herself. In blood. In business. In brutality when needed." He gestures to me. "I name her my heir. My voice in California. My hand in Sinaloa operations."

Some applaud. Some look skeptical. One—Ramirez from the Tijuana faction—objects. "She's a woman. And young. This is unprecedented?—"

His words cut off as I put a knife through his hand, pinning it to the table.

The move is so fast most don't see it happen until he's screaming.

"Anyone else have concerns about my gender?" I ask calmly, leaving the knife in place.

Silence except for Ramirez's whimpering.

"Good. Because I'd hate to ruin Tío's beautiful floors with more blood." I yank the knife free, wipe it clean on Ramirez's jacket. "Though I will if necessary."

Eduardo laughs, though it turns into coughing that he can't quite control.

When he recovers, there's blood on his handkerchief.

"You see? She is exactly what we need. Not just strength, but a spectacle. Not just violence, but sends a message."

The ceremony continues. Oaths are sworn. Territories confirmed. Alliances cemented with blood and tequila.

"A toast," Eduardo announces, struggling to his feet. "To the future. To family. To?—"

He collapses mid-word.

" Tío! " I catch him before he hits the ground, his weight surprising in its absence. He's wasted away to nothing beneath his suits.

"Perfect... timing," he whispers, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "Always... theatrical... to the end."

"Don't—"

"Listen." His hand grips mine with surprising strength. "Trust... no one... completely. Not even... him." His eyes flick to Jagger. "Love... makes us... weak."

"Eduardo—"

"Your mother... would be... proud." His grip loosens. "The dragon... becomes... the crown."

And then Eduardo Vasquez, who built an empire on blood and ambition, dies in my arms.

The room erupts in chaos.

Some calling for doctors.

Some already plotting succession challenges.

Voices raised in multiple languages, hands drifting to weapons.

I stand, Eduardo's blood on my hands, and pull my gun.

The shot into the ceiling silences everyone.

"Eduardo Vasquez is dead," I announce, voice carrying over the crowd. "His territories, his operations, his alliances, pass to me. As he decreed. As you all witnessed."

"You think we'll just accept—" Another Tijuana soldier starts.

Jagger puts a bullet in his head before he can finish.

The body drops, adding to the evening's tally.

"Yes," I continue calmly, stepping over the corpse. "You'll accept. Because the alternative is war. And as this weekend proved, I excel at war, as does my man’s club."

They look at the two bodies. At my blood-soaked hands. At the Iron Veins members strategically placed around the room.

One by one, they kneel, knowing their fucking place.

First the younger ones, smart enough to see which way the wind blows.

Then the veterans, pragmatic enough to know when they're outgunned.

Finally, even the skeptics, choosing survival over pride.

"Long live the new queen," someone mutters.

And just like that, I control the entire Sinaloa cartel.

The days pass and we burn Eduardo's body according to his wishes.

A private ceremony in the desert where he built his first lab.

Just family—which now means me, Jagger, and a handful of Eduardo's most trusted.

"He was a bastard," his old lieutenant Martinez says as we watch the pyre burn. "But he was our bastard."

"He was what he needed to be," I reply. "We all are."

"You okay?" Jagger asks as we watch the sun set over Eduardo's empire. My empire now.

"He killed my parents. Ordered my father's death. Had my mother poisoned to look like cancer." I touch my still-flat belly, where our child grows—a secret I've held for a few days now, wanting the perfect opportunity to tell him. "But he also made me strong enough to survive it."

"And now?"

"Now we go home. Solidify power. Prepare for what's coming."

"The FBI?"

"Among other things." I turn to face him. "I'm pregnant."

He goes absolutely still. "What?"

"About six weeks. Figured it out a couple days ago." I study his face, watch emotions war across it. "Surprise."

"Scarlett—" His voice breaks. "Are you serious?"

"Would I joke about this?"

He kisses me hard, desperate, like he's trying to pour every emotion into the contact.

His hands frame my face, thumbs brushing away tears I didn't realize were falling.

"Fuck." He drops to his knees right there in the desert sand, pressing his forehead to my stomach. "A baby. Our baby."

"Get up," I laugh, tugging at his shoulders.

"My kid," he says, wonder in his voice as he stands. "Our kid. Holy shit, Scarlett."

"Eloquent as always."

He spins me around, and for a moment we're not cartel queen and an MC VP.

We're just two people who found each other in violence and somehow created life.

"I love you," he says. "Both of you."

"We love you too."

***

We leave directly after the funeral and go back to the clubhouse.

The second we’re back, Squirrel calls church, not just officers—everyone. Full club meeting.

Squirrel looks up at me. "A lot has changed since we were in Mexico, and now it’s time for Scarlett to speak."

"Brothers," I address them, wearing my property patch and Eduardo's ring. "We stand at a crossroads. Continue as we've been, or evolve into something greater."

"What are you proposing?" Squirrel asks from his president's chair.

"Full integration with Sinaloa. Not as contractors—as partners . Equal shares, equal say. The cartel needs us to move product. We need them for supply and protection."

"And you'd oversee this?"

"I am Sinaloa now, so yes."

Debate follows. Concerns about autonomy. Questions about tribute. Worries about federal attention.

I answer them all, laying out the vision. How we'll structure operations. How we'll protect the club while expanding power. How we'll use cartel resources to eliminate rivals and secure territory.