I step forward before the last word fully leaves his mouth.
Evie keeps hold of my hand with both of hers now.
Lenrog’s voice becomes ice. “Arturo.”
The suited messenger appears from the stairwell door as if he has been listening the entire time, which he likely has.
“Take him,” Lenrog says.
Ron does not fight when the guards reach him. That is worse. He lets them guide him toward the rear corridor, head slightly bowed. At the threshold, he looks back once.
Not at Lenrog.
At Evie.
The expression on his face is quiet now. Stripped of performance. It is the look of a man who has chosen a story where all his pain has one cause, one symbol, one target.
My blood goes cold.
“Ron,” I say.
He smiles.
Then the door closes behind him.
Evie exhales shakily at my side.
Lenrog remains still for several seconds, staring at the closed door with unreadable eyes. When he finally turns back, he looks older.
“He will not trouble you tonight,” he says.
“Tonight,” Evie repeats.
Lenrog looks at her. “I prefer honest limits to false comfort.”
She laughs once, brittle and furious. “That might be the most criminal thing anyone has ever said to me.”
His mouth curves faintly. “You continue to be refreshing, Miss Mercy.”
“I’m not interested in being refreshing to crime families.”
“Wise.”
I turn toward him. “He is not contained.”
“No.”
“Then contain him.”
Lenrog’s gaze shifts to me. “You think containment is a cage.”
“I think it is a result.”
“And I think you still understand people primarily as battlefield variables.” He retrieves his jacket from the chair. “Ron is not controlled by walls. Not for long. He is controlled by humiliation, resentment, fear, and the possibility of inheritance. Those levers remain. Damaged, but present.”
“He looked at her.”
“I noticed.”
