“Relax,” he says. “If I meant Miss Mercy harm, you and I would not be having such a civilized conversation.”
The server returns with water. Lenrog waits until she leaves before continuing.
“You humiliated Ron Sanchez,” he says. “That alone would have purchased my attention. The method was artistry.”
“It was restraint.”
“Restraint can be artistic. Anyone can kill a fool. It takes sophistication to let him live in disgrace.”
“I did not do it for entertainment.”
“No. You did it for love.”
The word strikes so fast I almost reach across the table.
Lenrog does not move.
The entire restaurant seems to narrow around his calm face.
I lower my voice. “Choose another word.”
“Affection, then. Devotion. Protective obsession. Use whichever allows you to breathe more comfortably.”
“I am not here to discuss Evie.”
“You are here because of Evie.” Lenrog takes a sip of water. “You became interesting because of Evie. The Poison Memories became a problem worth managing because of Evie. Ron became stupid enough to threaten one of Halo’s few beloved institutions because of Evie. So with respect, my large friend, she is already at this table.”
I do not like this man.
That is not enough.
I must understand him.
“What is Ron to you?” I ask.
Lenrog’s expression changes for the first time. Very slightly. Not guilt. Not tenderness. Something more complicated and colder.
“An embarrassment.”
“Blood?”
“Unfortunately.”
Son, then. Or close enough.
Lenrog watches me absorb that. “His mother’s boy in temperament, though I suppose a man should not blame the dead for what the living choose. Ron wants power without discipline. Fear without responsibility. Theater without structure. He believes my name entitles him to inherit the city one tantrum at a time.”
“You let him run a gang.”
“I let him fail small.”
“He attacked Evie.”
“And now he has failed large.”
The calm in Lenrog’s voice is not indifference. It is control so practiced it looks like absence.
My anger hardens. “If he is yours, restrain him.”
