"Please." Stellan straightens, wiping his hands on his pants. Blood streaks dark against the charcoal fabric. "You cook every time she comes over. Which is what, three times a week now? Four?"
"Five." The correction slips out before I can stop it.
His eyebrow arches. "Five. Christ, Dec. You're practically married."
The word sends something through my chest. He has no clue how close he is there.
"Your point?"
"No point." Stellan circles again, predator pacing. "Just interesting watching you go all soft and domestic while the rest of us are still out here doing the actual work."
"That's bullshit and you know it." I move forward, grabbing Marcus's collar. His head snaps up. "I do my share."
"Do you though?" But Stellan's grinning now, that cold slash of humor that means he's enjoying needling me. "Because from where I'm standing, you spend more time picking out pasta shapes than handling distribution problems."
"We're handling one right now."
"After I called you three times."
He's not wrong about that. I'd been at home, Zola curled against my side on the couch, her breathing deep and even in sleep. She'd finally let herself rest after I'd fed her, and I'd been watching her, struck by how young she looked without worry creasing her forehead. When Stellan's call came through,I'd considered ignoring it. Actually considered it. That should probably concern me more than it does.
I land another hit on Marcus's face, feeling cartilage give under my knuckles. The violence grounds me, reminds me who I am outside of Zola's soft warmth and the domestic fantasies I've been entertaining.
"I'm here now."
"You are." Stellan takes his turn, efficient strikes that'll leave Marcus pissing blood for a week. "Physically, anyway. Mentally you're probably wondering what she's doing. If she ate the leftovers. If she's comfortable in your bed."
Every word lands accurate. Irritating how well my brother knows me.
"Shut up."
"There it is." He laughs, the sound empty of real warmth. "See? Domesticated. Two years ago you would've hit me for that."
"Two years ago you wouldn't have said it."
"Fair point." He stops, studying Marcus's face. The man's barely conscious now, head lolling, breathing shallow. "We about done here?"
I check Marcus over with practiced eyes. Bruised, broken in places that'll hurt like hell but heal clean. Nothing permanent. Nothing that'll need a hospital—his people will patch him up, spread the story, and that'll be that.
"Yeah. We're done."
Stellan produces a knife from somewhere, cutting through the zip ties in one smooth motion. Marcus slumps forward and I catch him before he hits the floor, lowering him down with more care than he probably deserves.
"Someone'll be by to collect you in an hour." I crouch beside him, making sure he can hear me through the pain haze. "You're going to remember this, Marcus. You're going to remember thatwe found you, we found the money, and we decided to let you live. That's a gift. Understand?"
He manages a nod, barely.
"Good." I stand, wiping my hands. "You work off what you stole. Ten percent of every job for the next two years goes directly to us. Miss one payment and we have this conversation again. Except next time, my brother handles it alone. And he's not as nice as I am."
Stellan scoffs at that but doesn't contradict me. We both know it's true—I have limits he doesn't, lines I won't cross that he stepped over years ago without looking back.
We leave Marcus crumpled on the concrete, heading for the stairs. The warehouse above is empty, just crates and shadows and the ambient sound of the city beyond the walls. My knuckles throb in time with my pulse, steady and insistent.
"You need to wrap those." Stellan nods at my hands as we emerge into the main floor. "Before you go home to your girl. Don't want her asking questions."
"She doesn't ask questions." It's true. One of our unspoken agreements—she knows enough to understand the life, not enough to be implicated in it. "And even if she did, I wouldn't lie."
"Wouldn't you?" He stops walking, turning to face me fully. The lights up here are better, showing the sharp angles of his face, the cold assessment in his gray eyes. "You sure about that?"
