The broken bracket digs into my palm. “Evie?”
“She’s alive.”
The words do not calm me. They only allow the rest of the fear to arrive.
“What happened?”
“Poison Memories hit the bakery.” Al’s voice roughens. “Not a quiet shake-down either. They came in like they were putting on a damn show. Smashed the place up. Customers ran. Word is they wanted protection money.”
The tunnel tilts by a fraction. Not because of weakness. Because the thing inside me that passes for restraint shifts its weight and prepares to tear free.
“Was she hurt?”
“Not like before. I heard she’s standing.” Al moves closer, careful now, because even foolish old men understand when a Vakutan’s temper becomes weather. “But the shop’s wrecked, Kauss.”
The torque tool bends between my fingers. Metal squeals.
Al glances down. “Easy.”
I drop the tool before I crush it flat.
“Who led them?”
“You already know.”
“Say it.”
“Ron Sanchez.”
The name moves through me like a blade finding an old wound. Ron. The swaggering little gang prince with the purplemohawk, polished muscles, tattoos, piercings, and dead eyes that imagine cruelty as charisma. I have seen him from rooftops and alleys. I know how men step aside for him. I know he smiles when they do.
I should have broken him weeks ago.
Al seems to hear the thought in my silence. “Listen to me, big man. Don’t go there stupid.”
“I do not go anywhere stupid.”
“You are absolutely capable of going somewhere stupid. You just do it with military posture.”
I step past him.
He catches my sleeve.
It is a brave thing. Also foolish. His fingers clamp on the wet fabric near my forearm, and I look down at his hand until he removes it.
“Kauss,” he says, softer now. “She needs you calm.”
“No.”
“Yes. She does. If you go in there looking like the end of days, you’ll scare every poor bastard who’s still holding a broom. Maybe her too.”
My upper lip pulls back. “They should be scared.”
“Sure. They should. But not of the man who saved her.”
That lands where he intends it.
I stare into the dark passage leading toward the surface. Water drips from a pipe overhead, striking the concrete in slow, patient taps. My hearts pound against my ribs, one after the other, war drums out of rhythm. The air in my lungs feels too hot.
