I’ve learned that’s what gets them. Not the broken bones. Not the gun in my waistband. It’s the thought of being nobody somewhere quiet.
I remember long stretches of my own life like that. Anonymous. Unremarkable. An extra in other people’s lives.
“You’ll figure it out,” I say. “Or you won’t. Either way, that’s not my problem.”
He laughs, wet and bitter. “You really don’t care, do you?”
I don’t answer. Caring is not my job description. That’s not what Kael pays me for.
In the corner of the room, the small camera mounted in the upper corner blinks a steady red. It’s been recording since we walked in. Any doubt this guy had about what he admitted is already archived in at least three places.
He sees the camera. Sees my face. Knows what this means.
“All right.” His voice cracks. “All right. I’ll sign.”
“Attaboy.”
I haul him to his feet, steadying him when he wobbles. His legs shake under his body weight. He smells like stale sweat and bad decisions.
Kael’s lawyer is waiting in the next room, papers spread out on the table like a sacrament. I steer our guest toward it, then step back so I’m just a shadow at his shoulder.
Weapon. Not person.
It’s a distinction I learned young and one Kael’s father reinforced for a decade before his son took over as head of the East Coast Irish. I’m good at it. I’m useful. I don’t have to think too hard about whether I like it.
The guy’s hands shake as he signs. By the time he’s done, he looks ten years older.
The lawyer gathers the papers, nods once to me, and disappears through another door without a word. Efficient. Forgettable.
Our guest wipes at his nose, grimacing.
“So that’s it?” he asks. “I walk?”
“For now.” I jerk my chin toward the bar’s back door. “We’re done here.”
He looks like he wants to say something else. Weighs it. Thinks better of it. He shuffles away, one step at a time, like he expects a bullet between his shoulders before he makes the alley.
I don’t move until the door shuts behind him and the lock clicks.
When it does, I exhale slowly, roll my shoulders once, and reach back to turn off the camera.
The red light dies.
The room is suddenly very quiet.
I tell myself that the little twist in my chest is nothing. Just adrenaline fading. Just the way it feels when you go from moving to standing still too fast.
There’s a knock on the inner door behind me.
I don’t have to ask who it is. Nobody knocks on that door except people who already belong on the other side.
“Yeah,” I call.
The door opens. Kael steps through, suit immaculate, expression unreadable. Even down here, in the guts of a South Philly bar, he looks like he’s walking into a board meeting.
“You get what we needed?” he asks.
“Every word,” I say. “On paper and on video. He’ll go quietly.”
