The air in the club was a thick, breathing thing, a humid beast made of bass, sweat, and cheap perfume. Neon signs bled against the smoke-hazed mirrors, casting a lurid glow on faces too young and too old. Felicia Cruz, draped in a dress the color of spilled wine, watched it all from her perch in the VIP section, a half-empty glass of something potent and forgotten in her hand. Below, bodies writhed on the dance floor, oblivious. Above, she could feel the city pulsing, a vast, hungry organism devouring itself one transaction at a time.
She wasn't here for the party. Felicia was here for business, a delicate dance of whispers and hidden glances. The kind of business that thrived in the shadows, where trust was a currency rarer than gold and betrayal a constant hum beneath the surface. Tonight, that hum felt particularly loud.
Across the room, through the shifting crowd, her gaze landed on Marisol "La Sombra" Vega. Marisol, with eyes that saw everything and a silence that spoke volumes, was already negotiating with a man Felicia recognized as a mid-level distributor, his nervous energy practically radiating across the room. Marisol was an artist of quiet intimidation, a shadow that could swallow you whole.
Then there was Catalina "La Llama" Morales, a flash of vibrant defiance in the muted chaos. She was at the bar, laughing, her dark hair a wild mane, her movements fluid and dangerous even as she flirted with the bartender. Catalina was fire, unpredictable and exhilarating. She lived for the rush, the thrill of the deal, the glint of steel.
Felicia took a slow sip of her drink. They were a strange trio, forged not by friendship in the traditional sense, but by a shared understanding of their brutal world. They were Cartel Queens, a name whispered with a mixture of fear and grudging respect. But Felicia never liked the word "queen." It was too absolute—too final. Queens ruled, but they also fell. And in her world, the ones who fell weren't killed. They were sold. Bargained away like currency in a game where loyalty had a price.
She wasn't playing that game.
Felicia called herself a T-Hugger—not because she avoided a fight, but because she knew how to squeeze. She didn't throw punches; she wrapped herself around a problem until it suffocated. It was a strategy honed over years of navigating treacherous waters, a silent art that few understood.
A figure detached itself from the shadows and approached her table. Ricardo Vargas, his suit impeccably tailored, his smile too wide, his eyes too cold. He was a snake, charming and poisonous, a rival with a growing ambition that made Felicia's skin crawl.
"Felicia," he purred, his voice barely audible above the club's roar. He leaned in, his breath a sickly sweet cloud of expensive cologne and cheap ambition. "Always so observant. A beautiful woman, wasted on contemplation."
Felicia offered him a faint, unreadable smile. "And you, Ricardo, always so predictable. A charmer, wasted on empty flattery."
His smile thinned, but he chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "You hear the whispers, Felicia? The feds are circling. Someone's talking. Someone's selling. And when a queen falls, others rush to pick through the spoils."
Felicia's gaze remained steady. She heard the whispers. They were the constant background noise of her life. She knew who was talking. Daniel Price. Her ex-husband. An agent with a badge and a vendetta, a man who believed he could dismantle her world piece by piece.
"Let them talk," Felicia said, her voice soft, almost a whisper. "Silence is often more powerful."
Ricardo's eyes narrowed, searching for a crack in her composure. He found none. "Perhaps. Or perhaps it's the silence of the grave." He straightened, his gaze sweeping over the club, lingering for a moment on Catalina and Marisol. "Loyalty is a fickle thing in this game, isn't it, Felicia? Especially when the stakes get high. Sometimes, real queens sell each other out to save their own skin."
Felicia met his gaze, her eyes a cool, steady blue. "Then perhaps you don't understand what a real queen is, Ricardo. Or what we're made of."
He scoffed, turning to walk away, a faint sneer on his lips. As he disappeared into the crowd, Felicia felt a shift in the club's energy. A subtle tightening, a sudden stillness in the movements on the dance floor.
Marisol and Catalina appeared at her table, their faces grim.
"Vargas was just talking to some new faces," Marisol said, her voice low. "Feds. Undercover."
"They're not just circling," Catalina added, her hand instinctively going to her side, where a small, flat blade was always concealed. "They're moving in. And Daniel Price is here. I saw him at the back entrance."
A cold certainty settled over Felicia. Daniel. He wasn't just a fed; he was a phantom of her past, a dark promise of what her life could have been, twisted into a weapon against her. He knew her weaknesses, her family, her vulnerabilities. And he wasn't above using them.
"He's not after me tonight," Felicia said, her voice barely a murmur. "He's after the network. He wants to hit us hard, make an example. But he's not stupid enough to do it directly."
Marisol's eyes narrowed. "So what's his play?"
Felicia stood, her wine-colored dress swaying around her. The club lights seemed to dim around them, the music fading into a distant thrum. Her gaze swept over the crowded room, taking in every face, every shadow.
"He's looking for a weak link," Felicia said, her voice hardening, a steel edge creeping into its soft cadence. "Someone to turn. Someone to sell us out."
She looked at her friends, their faces illuminated by the frantic neon glow. In this world of betrayal and shifting loyalties, they were her anchor.
"But he's made a mistake," Felicia continued, her voice rising slightly above the noise. "He thinks he knows us. He thinks he knows what we're willing to sacrifice."
Catalina smirked, a dangerous glint in her eyes. "Let's show him what happens when you miscalculate."
Felicia nodded, a predatory calm settling over her. "Let's show him that real queens don't sell each other." She looked out at the oblivious crowd, then back at her allies, a silent promise passing between them. "And we certainly don't let anyone else sell us."
The hunt had begun. And this time, Felicia intended to be the hunter.