“You won’t go hungry though,” he adds, gruff. “I’ll make sure of that.”
I smile. “Thank you.”
Jax raises his beer toward O. “Great then.”
O snorts. “Don’t push it, boy.”
I glance between them, the easy familiarity, the unspoken history. “Can I ask something?”
O shrugs. “Sure.”
“You said something about an old debt, back then, years ago.”
O smiles faintly, a distant look in his eyes. “Ah.” He looks at Jax for a long, heavy moment before answering, like he’s weighing a lifetime of secrets. “Long time ago, when I first opened this place, nobody in this city trusted I could pay the rent. I was just another fool with a dream and a pile of junk.” He gestures around the shop. “I had too much junk. Too many ideas.”
Jax stays quiet, his knuckles tight around his beer bottle.
“Jaxwell St. Clair signed the contract for this shop,” O says, his voice drags lower. “He owned the building. Still does.”
I blink.
“He even offered to put me somewhere fancy, away from the Cut,” O continues, shaking his head. “But I knew I couldn’t afford those rents. This place… this is where I belong. It wasn’t kindness. He just believed in the business.”
“So you helped us then because he helped you?” I ask.
He taps the counter. “The Pit wants people turning on each other. That’s how it gets fed.” His eyes drift toward the window. “Bodies and blood are primitive. What really destroyed this citywas betrayal.” He looks back at me. “People selling each other out, so I made a point to do the opposite.” He shrugs, a simple gesture that carries the weight of a lifetime. “And here we are.”
I hesitate, the words catching in my throat. “Jax mentioned your son.”
O’s face tightens slightly, the lines around his eyes deepening. “Leonard.” He nods once, a jerky, painful motion. “Got in with the wrong crowd.” His voice softens, losing its gruff edge. “Hard not to in a place like this.” He rubs the back of his neck, a gesture of weary helplessness. “The drugs turned a good heart into a hungry one.”
He doesn’t say anything else.
I stare into my coffee, the dark surface reflecting the turmoil churning inside me.
“My mom’s sick,” I blurt out.
Both of them look at me.
“Chronic bone pain,” I continue. “She can barely move some days.”
“Sorry to hear,” O says gently.
“She used to work in a clothing factory near the industrial docks.”
Jax stiffens.
“The doctor says it had nothing to do with it,” I say, my eyes fixed on Jax’s reaction. “But I swear she hasn’t been healthy since working there. And by doctor, I mean Dr. St. Clair.”
“She’s not the only one. A lot of folks get sick from working in those places.” O shakes his head slowly. “Nobody can ever prove it, of course. Well, the city looks the other way when it’s convenient.” He meets my gaze, his own full of a weary understanding. “You want to blame his family, I get it. But in this city, the real villain is the tar. It seeps into everything, the air, the water, the ground. It poisons the whole damn system, and people like your mom are just the ones who pay the price.”
Jax suddenly stands. “Pitfire,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “This was supposed to be a happy visit.” He points at both of us. “You two are fucking terrible.”
O grins. “Bad wingman?”
“The absolute worst.”
“Good thing you two are just friends then,” O says, taking another sip of his coffee.
