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“It’s not what it looks like,” he begins. “You know he agreed to help us, and we didn’t betray him. It was—”
The back door to the tattoo shop swings open before he can finish, and Quinn comes out. She takes in the scene and then comes over to the car, looking down into the trunk.
My breath catches, a lump growing in my throat. I wait for her to fall apart or start screaming at us, accusing us of killing her father, but instead, she takes a deep breath. When she looks up, there’s pain in her eyes, but there’s something like resolve there too.
Her entire demeanor changes, her expression hardening as if she’s aged several years in just the space of a few seconds, and there’s a commanding glint in her eye as she turns to face her father’s men.
“Stand down,” she says quietly.
“But, Quinn, they—”
“I said stand down!” she barks, her voice cracking like a whip. “They didn’t do this. My father…” She falters for just a second, then starts again, her voice gaining strength. “My father went of his own free will. He had a chance to take down his enemy, the woman responsible for Casey’s death, and he took it. He knew the risks before he went. It was important enough to him to go anyway.”
There’s a moment of loaded silence, but Quinn doesn’t blink. She doesn’t waver or back down at all. Finally, the first man who spoke to us drops his head, a gesture of both acquiescence and respect. He shoves his gun back in to the waistband of his pants, and one by one, the rest of the gang members put their weapons away too.
I exhale a shaky breath, glancing quickly at my men before stepping forward. They usually take the lead when we deal with groups like the Enigma gang and the Kings of Chaos, but in this moment, I feel like I should be the one to speak to Quinn.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I can never express our gratitude enough. He saved our lives. We’ll always owe that to him. We oweyou.”
She nods, her eyes glinting in the light that filters into the alley. She’s tall too, just like her dad, and I have to tilt my head a little to meet her gaze.
“Thank you.” With a tiny gesture of one hand, she motions for the two men who first looked into the trunk to approach. “Bring him inside,” she instructs. “We’ll deal with funeral arrangements tomorrow.”
The men nod and carefully remove Jonah’s body, supporting it between them as they bring it inside. The remaining gang members fade back a little at another gesture from Quinn, and it strikes me in a rush that she’s just become their leader, stepping into her father’s shoes. I haven’t heard it confirmed with words, but I can see it in the way she acts and in the way they treat her.
“What happened?” Quinn asks now that we have more privacy. “How did he…”
“He saved our asses,” Ransom tells her, his voice solemn. “The plan was fucked from the beginning, but we didn’t know that. We were caught flat-footed, and if it hadn’t been for him, we’d all be dead right now.”
She swallows, running a hand over one of her tattooed arms as if trying to banish the goosebumps scattered across her skin. “So he got his revenge in the end? Olivia Stanton is dead?”
Vic nods. “Yes. Dead and unable to hurt anyone else again. He was instrumental in that, and he got a chance to spit on her corpse before he fell. He got his closure, for whatever that’s worth.”
“Good,” Quinn murmurs. “He hated her so much for what happened to my uncle, so… so at least I know he got to see her die before the end.”
It’s impressive, how good she is at keeping her shit together. She has to be hurting inside, feeling the grief of losing her dad, but she’s keeping her tough façade up. Even still, there’s so much pain in her eyes, and it breaks my heart to see it.
I lower my voice a little, wanting these words to be just for her. “He told us to tell you something. Right before he… died.”
She swallows. “What was it?”
“That he loves you. Those were his last words.”
That seems to be the thing that breaks through the new mantle of leadership she’s wearing. Tears glisten in her eyes, and she closes them for a second, dragging in a few deep breaths.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
Unable to help myself, I take a tentative step toward her, wrapping my arms around her in a hug. It’s awkward at first, and I almost expect her to shove me away, since several of her father’s men—hermen—are still watching. She’s stiff for a second, but then her arms tighten around me, squeezing tightly as if she needed this more than words could express. I feel her body shudder against mine, and then she releases me and steps back, squaring her shoulders.
“Are you going to be alright?” I murmur.
“Yeah.” She nods, and I can already see her compartmentalizing her emotions again. “I always am. I have to be, so I will be.”
To my surprise, Malice steps forward, offering her his hand. She takes it, and they shake once.
“Jonah helped us more than we can say,” he tells her. “So if you ever need something from us, we owe you one.”
I’ve learned enough about the world my men inhabit by now to know that offering an open-ended favor like that is rare. The Voronin brothers spent years under X’s thumb, doing jobs for my grandmother in exchange for Malice’s early release from prison. So owing anyone for anything, having that sort of thing hanging over them, is the kind of thing they would normally avoid at all costs. But for what Jonah did for us, they’re clearly willing to do it.
