That is the first thing I notice when the air changes. Magic comes in from the hall behind the bar, wiping his hands on a towel. His face is blank in the way men’s faces get when they’ve been near ugly truth and put their emotions in a box so they can carry it later.
“Where is she?” I ask.
No one pretends not to know who I mean.
“Back room,” Magic says. “Watched.”
“Alive?”
His mouth twists. “For now.”
Shady’s voice cuts in. “She stays that way.”
My head turns.
Blood on his shirt. Dirt on his jeans. Knuckles split. Eyes locked on mine like I’m the only road left in Miami.
“Don’t,” I say.
His jaw flexes. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t use that voice like you’re the reasonable one. I’m not asking because I want her dead.”
“I didn’t think you were.”
“I’m asking because a woman helped hand me to men with guns, and somehow everybody in this room knows more about why than I do.”
The room goes still.
Disco whispers, “No roses.”
I stand.
Darling catches my hand. “Lady.”
“I need the truth.”
“You need rest,” Shady says.
I laugh.
Wrong answer, gringo.
His face tightens like he knows it too.
“Mira,” I say, stepping away from Darling. “You don’t get to decide what I need anymore. Maybe you never did.”
He takes that hit without moving.
Good.
Let it land.
I walk toward him, slow because my knees are still traitors. Every step hurts. My ankles burn from straps. My ribs ache. But I make it across the floor because he needs to see me standing when I ask.
Boca got one thing right.
I need to ask.
