Certainty.
His partner mutters softly, “Jesus Christ.”
“Correct religion, wrong apocalypse,” comes Savio Lenrog’s voice from behind them.
The guards part immediately.
Lenrog sits in the same corner booth as before, one hand around a low glass of amber liquor. Another man occupies the opposite side of the booth, expensive suit half-unbuttoned, face pale with discomfort. Lenrog gestures lightly toward the man.
“Leave us.”
The businessman does not argue. He practically climbs over the booth escaping.
Lenrog watches him go with mild disappointment. “He was about to agree to a terrible investment. You interrupted civic progress.”
I stop beside the table.
Every instinct screams violence.
Not because I want Lenrog dead specifically. Because he sits there so calm while Evie cried upstairs trying to understand why I let myself become a target in her bakery.
“You sent them,” I say.
Lenrog takes a slow sip of liquor. “No.”
“They mentioned your leash.”
“That sounds like Ron.”
“He humiliated her business.”
“Correction.” Lenrog sets the glass down carefully. “He humiliated you in her business. Different strategic objective.”
The distinction hits like a blade slipped between ribs.
Lenrog studies my face for a long moment. “Sit down, Kauss.”
“No.”
“You are causing alarm.”
“Good.”
“That attitude becomes exhausting after forty.”
I lean forward over the table. “You told me the Poison Memories would leave Sweet Tooth alone.”
“And they did.”
Rage flashes hot enough to blur my vision briefly.
Lenrog lifts one hand slightly. “Careful. You are about to confuse emotional violation with technical violation. An important distinction in my profession.”
“They dumped food on me in front of her.”
“Yes.”
“You allowed it.”
