“What should I call him? The man whose attention you’re desperately trying to earn?”
He lunges forward, but one of his men grabs his arm.
“Ron,” the man says. “We’re here.”
The vehicle slows outside La Reina Azul.
Of course.
The elegant restaurant shines through rain like another world, gold windows, blue tile entry, valets scrambling under umbrellas. Ron drags me out of the vehicle without the old theatrical swagger now. His fingers dig into my arm hard enough to bruise. The doorman sees us and goes pale.
“Mr. Sanchez?—”
“Move.”
Inside, warmth and music swallow us. The scent of roasted peppers, lime, polished wood, expensive liquor, and fresh flowers feels obscene after the violence in my bakery. Diners turn. Conversations drop. Ron pulls me through the dining room as though making spectacle is the entire point.
It is.
I lift my chin and walk on my own because being dragged looks too much like defeat.
Savio Lenrog rises from his corner booth before we reach it.
He looks at me first.
Not at Ron.
At me.
His expression does not change much, but something cold and lethal enters the room through his eyes.
“Miss Mercy,” he says. “I apologize for the discourtesy.”
Ron laughs. “Discourtesy? That what we’re calling it?”
Lenrog’s gaze moves to him slowly. “Release her arm.”
“No.”
“Ron.”
One word.
Soft.
Terrible.
Ron’s fingers loosen despite himself. I pull free and step away from him, rubbing my arm.
Lenrog gestures to the booth. “Sit, Miss Mercy.”
“I’d rather stand.”
For the first time since I arrived, something like amusement touches his mouth. “Of course.”
Ron throws his bloody cloth onto the table. “You wanted to handle things? I’m handling them.”
“No,” Lenrog says. “You are embarrassing yourself in a room with witnesses.”
