That’s what’s eating me. Not just the fight, but the fact that he was holding back. And that I noticed.
He’s got tells. Not many, but enough. Little pauses. Small shifts in his stance. If I wanted to, I could read him. I could figure out what he’s hiding.
Problem is, part of me already knows and part of me doesn’t want to.
Either way, deep down, I know the next move is going to involve him, whether I like it or not.
8
DANTE
The call comes less than an hour after I walk out of Steel Roses. I’m still running the sparring match through my head, still feeling the ghost of her grip on my wrist, when the phone buzzes in my pocket.
I almost don’t answer. Almost. Until I see Sable’s name flash on the screen.
I don’t waste breath on hellos. “Talk.”
“You owe me twice for this one,” she says, her voice low like she doesn’t want to be overheard. I hear the hum of traffic behind her voice, some asshole leaning on a horn, and the hiss of a bus’s brakes bleeding through.
“Then make it worth the debt.” I snarl. I’m already in a bad mood and my aching cock isn’t helping matters.
"Your boy Briggs was seen near the freight tracks off North Albany Avenue, just past the row of rusted-out warehouses. My source says he was breathing but barely. Seen with two men. One with a busted ear, cauliflowered to hell."
I know that stretch. Everyone who’s been in this city longer than a week knows it. Old brick crumbling into the asphalt, busted chain-link fences sagging toward the tracks, the air heavywith salt, rust, and diesel. The kind of place you end up when someone wants you to disappear without leaving a trail. Nobody goes there unless they’re dumping something, or someone, they don’t want found.
“Who’s your source?” I ask.
“Guy owes me a favor,” comes the voice on the other end. “Saw it from the loading dock. Stayed quiet so he didn’t end up next.”
My grip on the phone tightens. “If he’s lying, he’ll wish he ended up next.”
“Not this guy,” Sable says. “He knows better.”
The line goes dead before I can ask more. That’s how this game works, just enough to keep me moving, never enough to solve the problem. Favors are currency, and I just spent one. Now I need to make it count.
The Charger growls to life, that deep chest-thump only a tuned V8 makes. I peel off the curb, cutting through the city away from the part that glitters and head towards the side that rusts.
My mind starts piecing the rest together. Briggs had no reason to be down there. Not unless he was chasing a payday… or running from one. If the Syndicate grabbed him, it’s because he had something they wanted or they think he’s worth breaking. Either way, if they’ve got him in that neighborhood, I’m already behind. I press harder on the gas.
I make my first stop at Tooley’s place, a bookie with a knack for keeping one foot in everyone’s business. I can’t run to the tracks half cocked and expect to survive. No. I need to know more. I need to know what crew the busted-ear guy works for, and in this city, Tooley is the one person keeping tabs on every low-rent gutter thug.
His pawnshop on Baltic Avenue looks like a crackhead’s yard sale crashed into a bad divorce settlement. Dusty guitars, dentedpower tools, and glass cases of fake gold that even the addicts won’t touch.
I yank open the door to the jingle of a bell and growl under my breath. Tooley is behind the counter, chewing on a toothpick like it’s a nervous habit he’s trying to make look casual. His eyes clock me, and his smile dies quickly.
“We’re closed.” He grumbles around the stick clenched between his teeth.
“You’re open.” I say stalking around the clutter of ridiculous items he thinks he can sell.
It smells like cheap cigars and even cheaper cologne. Old fight posters curl on the dingy window in the back like it can hide the fact the view is just another alley full of rats.
“If you're here about Briggs,” I circle the counter and he leans back like distance will help, “I mind my business. I don’t know anything.”
I shove him into the display hard enough that the cash register jumps and a snow globe of the Taj Mahal tips over, shattering on the floor. Water and fake glitter bleed across the floor.
“You obviously know something.” I say. “Talk.”
“I don’t…”
