“No.” His eyes sharpen slightly for the first time tonight. “I failed to anticipate Ron’s desperation.”
The answer catches me off balance.
Not denial.
Not manipulation.
Assessment.
Lenrog gestures toward the booth again. “Sit. You are attracting police attention.”
“I do not care.”
“You will when uniforms arrive and the story becomes ‘violent Vakutan threatens restaurant staff.’ Sit down.”
I hate that he is right.
Again.
I slide into the booth hard enough that the tableware rattles.
The guards remain nearby. Lenrog waves them farther back without looking. “Farther.”
They hesitate.
“Gentlemen,” Lenrog says mildly, “if Kauss intended to kill me, proximity will not improve your odds.”
The guards retreat.
I stare across the table at him. “Explain.”
Lenrog folds his hands loosely. “Ron Sanchez is drowning.”
“That inspires no sympathy.”
“It should not. But drowning men claw at whatever floats nearby.” Lenrog tilts his head slightly. “You embarrassed him publicly. Worse, you embarrassed him morally.”
“He attacked civilians.”
“Yes. And then you spared him. Men like Ron can process pain. Mercy humiliates them because mercy establishes hierarchy.”
I do not answer.
“He spent days after the zoo incident insisting he would retaliate.” Lenrog’s mouth tightens faintly. “I advised restraint.”
“He ignored you.”
“Ron hears advice the way drunk men hear weather reports.”
Anger still burns through me sharp and ugly. “Then stop him.”
Lenrog laughs softly.
Not mocking.
Tired.
“You still think power works cleanly.” He swirls the liquor once in his glass. “Interesting.”
