“Clean your kitchen like the Pope’s coming for dinner,” I ordered. “Wipe every bottle. Fix the damn light in the back hallway. And when they show, you smile like they’re your favorite cousins. They leave happy, we stay invisible. You screw it up; I can’t make you disappear fast enough.”
Cruz was quiet for a beat too long. “You threatening me?”
“I’m warning you,” I corrected, my voice dropping to a whisper. “I don’t waste time threatening family. But family knows better than to bring heat to my doorstep.”
His tone softened. “Alright. I’ll handle it.”
“You better,” I firmly stated, and ended the call before he could breathe another word.
Saint was up next. I didn’t expect him to answer, but I hit dial anyway. Rings stacked up in my ear like they were counting down to something. No answer. No voicemail either. Just dead space.
I leaned back in the chair, phone pressed to my ear, and spoke low, like he was there anyway.
“Saint,” I muttered. “You ever think about how many doors are locked because of you? Not because you’re a threat, but because you’re a shadow people trust more than their own locks. That’s a gift. Don’t waste it.”
I let the silence stretch, then ended the call. He’d get the message. Men like him didn’t need to hear it live to know it was meant for them.
I leaned back in my chair, the leather sighing like it was tired of me. The office smelled like cigars that died years ago and gun oil that never leaves. The single desk lamp burned low, throwing long shadows across the walls—shadows that moved if I stared too long.
The burner sat in front of me, screen glowing pale blue. I spun the chair half a turn, slow, back to the wall. Habit. Never face a window when you’re texting about war.
I cracked my knuckles, one by one, and thumbed out the first text:
Tino: layout map. *one attachment*
He read that, grunted once, and started drawing like he was etching scripture.
A flick of the lighter. Flame danced, died. I typed again.
Jinx: placement approved.
Jinx would decode that like it was gospel. Man knew silence better than words.
I spun the chair again, back to the desk. The screws squealed. My paranoia had a soundtrack. I scanned the door latch. Still locked. I like to check even when I know.
Mouse: Tony’s last known.
I didn’t like Tony running around blind. He was a loud drum in a quiet song.
My lips twitched at the next text. Couldn’t help it.
Whit: dress like a human, not a mayonnaise ad.
He’d come polished anyway. Rich boys like him wear fear under clean collars.
I hovered over Saint’s name, thumb an inch from the screen. No text. Men like him moved when the air shifted, not when a phone buzzed.
I leaned back, set the lighter on my knee, and flicked it open again. Flame. Click. Darkness. The fan on the desk chopped the air slow, blades slicing through smoke ghosts left over from the last cigar I didn’t finish.
Every name I’d texted was a spark. And I was sitting here with a pocket full of matches, waiting for the city to burn.
Morning crept in like a thief, slow and gray, and I let it. The office smelled like cold metal and burnt coffee, chair groaning every time I leaned back. I spun that quarter over the desk, heads and tails flashing like a coin toss between life and death. Outside, rain tapped a code only men like me know how to read—slow drips for patience, hard slaps for war. Every buzz of my phone was another ghost answering orders they didn’t realize might bury someone later. I traced maps in my head: streets, alleys, doors I’ve walked through and doors I’ve kicked in. The game wasn’t about muscle; it was about tempo. Set it too fast, someone panics. Too slow, and someone thinks they’re safe. Both get you killed.
At noon, I ate noodles over the sink, no table. A table makes food a conversation, and I wasn’t in the mood to answerquestions no one had the courage to ask yet. Lani texted a photo of the envelope I’d slid under her door last night—paper sharp in the foreground, her ring glinting on the counter, the kettle behind it steaming like a warning. No words. Just a message. She didn’t expect a reply, and she wouldn’t get one. Silence keeps respect alive longer than pleasantries. It’s better when people wonder what you’re thinking. Fear fills in the blanks faster than words.
I swung by the club to check locks and lights. Exit signs glowed steady, liquor cage intact, and the smell of motor oil lingered in the air like an oath. Outside, the lot sat quiet, except for the rain tapping on bike seats lined in a row like soldiers at attention. I palmed the quarter, flipped it over every plate. Heads up—clean. Heads down—someone was slipping. Three tails in a row, and my gut tightened. Someone was getting too comfortable, and comfort around here gets people killed. I pocketed the names like bullets. Not yet chambered. Soon.
Mouse met me with a bag of donuts he wasn’t earning. “Tony posted,” he said, mouth full. “Behind the barber with the busted chair.”
