“Is this about the debt,” Rainer says evenly, “or about the fact that you want him back in that ring?”
Ricky stares at him for a long moment, as if deciding how much respect the question deserves. “One hundred and three thousand,” he says.
Rainer nods once. “Come back in two days. I will have it ready.”
The floor cracks open beneath me. All I know is that the room tilts and something hot and ashamed rises in the back of my throat.
“No,” I say.
Rainer keeps his eyes on Ricky. “That clears the debt entirely. You do not walk through this door again and you do not reach out to Zane again.”
His gaze shifts to Griff. “That goes for you, too. You stay clear of him.”
Griff’s mouth tightens, but he does the smart thing and keeps it shut.
Ricky watches Rainer for a long moment, then his eyes slide to me.
“Generous man,” he says.
For one second, nobody speaks.
I hate myself for standing here watching this, because Rainer should not be in this position, discussing payment terms with a fight organizer like it is a business transaction. He should be complaining about invoices and busting my ass about the alternator I haven't finished.
When Ricky stays quiet, Rainer does not. “Do we have a deal? Zane is left alone once the debt is paid.”
Ricky adjusts his cuff, taking his time, as if he has all the time in the world and wants us to know it.
“Two days,” he says finally. “You pay it then and the debt is paid. We have a deal.”
He holds Rainer’s gaze for one beat longer than necessary, making sure the weight of it lands and that there is no confusion about who just won this exchange. Then he turns and walks out without uttering another word. His men follow, the roller door rattling in their wake.
Griff lingers half a second longer than the rest. His eyes stay on mine and the glance he gives me is almost enough to drag thatold version of me out by the throat, where I would fix this with my fists.
Then he goes too.
I stare at the empty doorway.
One breath, then two, before I turn around.
“No.”
Rainer is already walking toward his office. “It’s done.”
“No it’s not fucking done.”
He continues walking, picking up his cold cup of coffee on the way.
“Rainer.”
He stops.
I hate the way his back looks at this moment.
Slightly bent. Older than I ever let myself notice. A man who has carried too much for too long, yet still turned around to pick up someone else’s mess because, apparently, that’s just what he does. What he has always done.
“That is over one hundred thousand dollars,” I say.
“I heard the number.”
