Later that night, Lena sat cross-legged on her bed, a box in her lap, the lid already pushed aside. Nina had brought it earlier—silent, unreadable—before vanishing back into the compound’s shadows.
Jax had dug for this. Quietly. Relentlessly. And now it was open.
A sealed past laid bare.
Inside: yellowed photographs, brittle with age. A faded journal scrawled in Spanish. And at the very bottom—
A birth certificate.
She lifted it with shaking hands, eyes scanning the worn text.
Elena Rosario Vargas.
Not Lena?.
Vargas.
The name hit like a bullet to the gut.
Her breath caught. Her entire body stilled.
Her mother had told her her name was Rachel Lena. Quiet. Harmless. American.
But Vargas… that name echoed through whispered warnings and blood-soaked history books.
Not just cartel-
