Knox laughs again, too loud, and throws his head back.
“He likes spectacle,” I mutter. “Noise. Screaming. Cameras. Witnesses.”
A town car rolls up to the curb.
Knox doesn’t check the driver. Doesn’t scan the reflection in the window. Doesn’t even glance at the street before stepping down off the curb.
“He thinks if something’s coming for him, it’ll look obvious,” I explain. “Masked. Armed. Loud. He doesn’t think it’ll look like this.”
Brooke doesn’t move.
“He doesn’t believe in quiet,” I add. “He believes in performance.”
Knox takes one last drag of his cigarette and flicks it into the street without looking. Open back exposed. Head tilted toward his phone.
“Watch his hands.”
She does.
“He texts while he walks. Eyes drop. Chin dips. His whole body softens. That’s when he’s least aware.”
Knox’s thumb moves over his screen as he steps toward the car. The driver gets out to open the door. Knox doesn’t acknowledge him. Just keeps typing.
“He expects protection,” I tell her. “He expects people between him and anything ugly. That’s what money buys.”
The door opens.
Knox ducks inside without ever turning his head.
“That’s ego,” I say. “Not confidence.”
The door shuts.
The car pulls into traffic.
Brooke’s breathing shifts.
“You don’t go for him when he’s drunk and loud,” I warn. “You don’t go for him when he’s surrounded by an audience.”
I turn my head just enough to look at her.
“You take him when he thinks the show’s over.”
Her jaw tightens.
“Between door and car,” I continue. “Between hallway and room. Between party and bed. Those seconds when he thinks he’s safe.”
The taillights disappear down the block.
Brooke stays quiet, absorbing it.
I lean back into my seat.
“Tonight, you don’t touch him,” I tell her. “You learn him.”
“I want him scared.”
I nod once.
