I glance down and adjust the silver oak tree pinned to my tie. “A friend gave it to me.”
Marshall finishes his scotch, signs the last page, and slides the contract back across the table with the kind of smug satisfaction you only earn after a lifetime of stepping on necks in handmade boots.
“Pleasure doing business,” he says.
“You have my number if you need anything else,” I reply, tucking the document into a folder.Nothing says capitalism like laundering your morals before the sun sets.
He shakes my hand and then leaves me to take care of the check. I ask the server to add a steak sandwich to my bill and hand him my credit card. I pull out my personal phone. I shouldn’t have it with me, but I missed three calls from Cybil last night and I haven’t stopped worrying about her.
I try calling her number. No answer. Straight to voicemail.
The rooftop wind hits stronger now, like the air’s trying to shake loose the tension crawling up my spine.
Cybil’s probably fine. She’s smart. Capable. But she’s not trained. Not like I am.
And she’s under serious pressure. I have no idea of the extent of her role in collecting intel for SNAP, but going toe to toe with a mobster like Lorenzo Ramirez is a lot different than stealing meeting notes.
I shove the phone back in my jacket and exhale, tight and sharp.
I told her I’d protect her. That she wasn’t alone in this. But now, standing here with a rooftop wind whipping against my collar and a contract full of fake promises, all I’ve got is radio silence and a clock ticking louder than I like.
This whole thing was supposed to be about justice. About taking Ramirez down for what he did to Danny Morales. And I understand the stakes now—the mineral deal, the international buyers, the falloutif it all goes through. But if I’d done my job in the first place—if I’d gotten access to his laptop—this would already be over.
And I’d be living a different version of my life—the kind where I’m not paying for overpriced scotch for another person trying to cheat on his taxes, but instead I’m with Cybil, locked in a standoff over whether or not she knew it was me when she punched me in the face with a bag of flour—or if she’d just been waiting for the perfect opportunity to give it to me.
In that version, we’re arguing over pancakes at her kitchen table, pretending the biggest threat in our lives is that rogue rooster on her uncle’s ranch—not this.
But I’m not living in that version.
I’m in the one where Cybil thinks I didn’t show up all those years ago. I can’t shake the way she looked at me back at the ranch. When she said she heard me, years ago. That she thought I didn’t like her. That I’d said something awful about her.
I’ve carried a lot of regret in my life, but that one—that shebelievedit, that shelivedlike it was true all these years—that one cracked me.
And now? I’d do anything to make up for it.
My phone buzzes in my jacket pocket.
It’s my work phone. Ruby.
I answer just as the server sets down my sandwich and returns my credit card. I sign the receipt. “Where is she?”
“With Edmond.”
“Is she safe?”
A pause. “Definesafe?”
My grip tightens around the phone. “Is sheokay?”
“She’s with her boss and the plan is moving forward.” There’s a bite to her tone before she exhales. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”
I crack open the to-go container and hit it with some specialseasoningI brought just for the occasion.I close it up and head toward the elevator, grateful it’s empty. “You know I am.”
“Do I?” she asks, her tone softer now. “Look, I’m not trying to giveyou a hard time. I’ve seen the way you work and how dedicated you’ve been to get to Ramirez.”
“I’m still dedicated.”
“But there’s more at risk now. You have feelings for her. Strong ones.”
