“That metaphor is vile.”
“Crime often is.”
“You fund them.”
“I allow them to operate.”
“That is funding with distance.”
His eyes brighten with amusement. “You are sharper than your reputation suggests.”
“My reputation was written by frightened people.”
“And by injured gang members. They are very dramatic.”
I do not answer.
Lenrog leans back, studying me. “You have become a disruption. A fascinating one. Former Alliance soldier with no formal authority, living among the forgotten, beloved by a baker, feared by street crews, and now known to local police as a man capable of dismantling the Poison Memories without spilling fatal blood. Men like you create vacuums whether they intend to or not.”
“I want no territory.”
“Territory may want you.”
“I am not a criminal.”
“No.” His gaze holds mine. “Not yet.”
The quiet after that is precise and deliberate.
I do not move. “Be careful.”
“I am always careful. That is why I am old.”
“You invited me here to threaten me.”
“No. If I wanted to threaten you, I would have chosen details. Miss Mercy’s walking routes. Her supplier schedules. Darlene’s smoking habits. The old man with the cane who sits near the door when he thinks she needs protection.”
My vision darkens at the edges.
Lenrog lifts one finger. “But I am not threatening you. I am demonstrating that crude threats are beneath me.”
“I could end you before your guards fire.”
“Yes.” His voice remains calm. “And then you would die in this restaurant or shortly after leaving it. Miss Mercy would be questioned, watched, perhaps blamed by men eager to simplify a political inconvenience. The bakery would become a shrine for one week and a liability thereafter. Halo would learn again that affection makes excellent shrapnel.”
I hate him because he is correct.
Lenrog sees that too.
“You understand consequence,” he says. “Good. Ron does not. That is one reason I am speaking with you instead of sending men.”
“What is the other?”
“I admire competence.”
“I am not for hire.”
“Everyone is for hire.”
