“No.”
“Some prices are not paid in credits.” Lenrog reaches for one of the corn cakes, breaks it neatly, and eats a small bite. “Safety. Legitimacy. Purpose. Revenge. Belonging. Men refuse money every day and sell themselves for cheaper things.”
“You think I want belonging?”
“I think you are starving for it.”
The words land closer than I allow my face to show.
He continues. “I could use a man like you.”
“I said no.”
“You said it before hearing the work.”
“I heard enough.”
“No collections. No intimidation of civilians. No petty errands.” He studies the food as if discussing a business partnership over a calm lunch instead of trying to recruit me into criminal service. “Enforcement, but selective. Containment. I have assets who need discipline and enemies who require fear. You have an exceptional talent for creating fear without creating corpses. That is rare.”
“I am not your enforcer.”
“Not today.”
“Not ever.”
His smile returns. “There it is. The moral line.”
“You find that amusing?”
“I find it familiar. Men with blood on their hands love lines. They remind us where we would stand if the universe were kind enough to cooperate.”
“My answer remains no.”
“Because of Evie?”
“Because of me.”
Lenrog accepts that with a small nod, which somehow irritates me more than argument.
“Very well,” he says. “Then I propose a simpler arrangement. Stay away from the Poison Memories.”
“No.”
“You enjoy making meetings difficult.”
“If they threaten Sweet Tooth?—”
“They will be instructed not to.”
“Instructed by you?”
“Yes.”
“Ron obeys you?”
“Less reliably than I prefer.”
“Then your instruction is insufficient.”
