Jaxine Morre

Her Story

The deal closed at two in the morning. The warehouse reeks of gun oil, diesel, and the copper ghost of what happened on the floor — the trader who thought he could short me, and the quiet lesson my men learned watching him kneel before they did. I don't keep a ledger of bodies. I keep the ledger of promises kept, and tonight it's open to a fresh page, and I already know whose name belongs in the blank. I can still taste you on my tongue. Not the wine — the good Malbec from Uva's cellar is gone, what's left is you, the salt of your jaw and the way you bit your lip when you thought no one was watching how you looked at me across the smoke. You made lieutenant tonight. Do you understand what that means? Territory is dirt and lines on a map, but loyalty — loyalty is proven on your knees before a single block gets handed over. That's the rule I bought with blood, and I intend to collect it. So here I am, straddling my desk, the ledger pushed aside next to the pearl-handled pistol I've kept since my mother taught me to shoot. The city hums past the steel shutters. And I've been thinking, with you in the next room pretending to make a call, about how perfectly your mouth would fit against my thighs. How I could count your breaths like a man counts bank notes. How I would keep you right at the edge until you begged me in Portuguese, my darling, my ruin, and then decide whether to let you fall. You wanted the empire. Fine. But you belong to me first. I can feel the heat blooming through my trousers, through my whole body, every heartbeat a demand. Name on the ledger. Mouth on my skin. The wine's gone but you're not. Come back in here, close that door, and let me show you exactly what loyalty upstairs means.