Felicia Cruz 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.
Tonight, the city was alive with secrets. Neon bled through the skyline, staining the streets with colors too loud to be natural. Engines hummed low, laughter leaked from cantinas, but up here—in the cartel's penthouse—the world felt stretched thin.
Felicia curled into her worn leather chair, steam rising from a mug of chamomile. A dog-eared copy of The Art of War sat on her knee.
She glanced at the clock. Midnight. The hour when debts came due.
Marisol "La Sombra" Vega paced by the window, her silhouette cut apart by streetlights. Catalina "La Llama" Morales lounged on the couch, cleaning her nails with a switchblade, the glint of steel catching the glow from the city below.
Felicia broke the silence. "Sun Tzu said, 'If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.'" She exhaled, tapping a finger against her book. "Let's just hope he had something useful for ex-husbands with federal badges."
Catalina smirked. "You're the only person I know who quotes philosophy while hiding from the feds."
Felicia grinned, but her eyes darted toward the locked door. "It's called coping. Some people drink. I read. And plot. And maybe hack a few government databases."
Marisol stopped pacing. "He's still out there. You sure about this?"
Felicia's smile thinned, steel creeping into her expression. "He's not just after me. He wants my kids."
She thought of them—twins, barely ten, tucked into bed in the next room. They didn't know the danger pressing against the walls. Didn't know their father was a monster in a suit.
A knock shattered the quiet—three raps. The code.
Catalina moved first, knife flashing, but Felicia waved her off. She opened the door herself.
A runner spilled in, breathless. "He's downstairs. With backup."
Felicia rose, stepping toward the window. Black SUVs lined the curb. Men in suits scanned the building, hands near concealed weapons. But she only saw one face—the one she knew best.
Agent Daniel Price.
Her ex-husband.
He stood at the curb, sunglasses reflecting the neon mess around him. Same clean-cut jaw, same shark-smile. And the same badge—the one that let him play dirty with impunity.
Felicia's mind spun through contingency plans. Protocols. Escape routes.
She looked at her friends. "We stick to the plan. No heroics. Just survival."
Marisol nodded. Catalina grinned, flipping her knife. "Let's show them what Cartel Queens are made of."
Felicia straightened her shoulders. They had underestimated her before.
They wouldn't make that mistake again.