I shrug. “Different caliber.” The kind you bring to a life, not a fight.
Sophia looks up at me, and whatever almost spilled out in the truck is there again, bright, close, right at the edge. I don’t reach for it. I don’t cage it. I let it come if it wants.
"Can you play another?" The little girl asks.
Sophia smiles and brushes the kid's hair from her face. "Got a minute?" Lexy asks.
Reluctantly and with a small nod at Sophia, I follow Lexy into the office. The door stays open, and I can hear the first notes lift, softer this time. "What's up?"
Lexy opens a screen on her desk, and I walk around to stare at a nondescript white van slowly driving down the street in front of this building. "This was two days ago," she says, pressing fast forward, "last night." The same van drives past.
"A few hours ago."
It could be anything. It could be a disgruntled husband or boyfriend trying to get his woman back. But with the Venezuelans breathing down our necks, it’s worth checking out.
"Got a license plate number?"
Wordlessly, Lexy hands me a scribble of paper. "I'll look into it," I promise. "I'll send more men too, just in case."
From outside, the sound of the piano still floats in, but suddenly it doesn't sound as happy any longer, more ominous.
A loud crash splits the room. Gun out, I rush back into the main room, ready to shoot whoever dared to intrude, while fear for Sophia claws at my chest.
Two boys slam into a folding chair, metal skittering across tile. Twelve and ten, tops. The older one is wiry and wild-eyed; the younger is stockier, swinging blind with wet cheeks. They’re not play-fighting. They’re ripping at each other, fists, elbows, a tangle of panic and pride. Sophia’s hands lift from the keys; the last note hangs in the air like a held breath.
I put the gun back. I don't think I'll need it for this kind of trouble.
“Enough.” My voice cracks the room clean. I catch the older one by the back of the hoodie, the younger by the forearm, and peel them apart without jerking, just firm and final. “Hands down. Eyes on me.”
The older one’s chest heaves. He glares like a cornered alley cat. The little one’s lip is split and trembling; he’s trying not to cry and losing.
“Breathe,” I say. “In for four. Now.” I count on my fingers. They fight it. I keep counting, steady as a metronome. “Out for four.”
By the second round, their shoulders start to drop, fists uncurling by inches. Around us, the room stays quiet, mothers watch with that mix of fear and fatigue I’ve seen a thousand times. Lexy shifts in the doorway, ready if I need her. I won’t.
“What’s your name?” I ask the older one.
“Mason,” he mutters.
“And you?”
“Nick,” the little one says, sniffing.
“Mason. Nick.” I look from one to the other. “We don’t throw hands in this building. Not at each other. Not at anyone smaller than you. This place is for breathing. Got it?”
Silence. Then two nods, stiff and reluctant.
“What happened?”
“He cut,” Mason jerks his chin. “Said I could wait for the computer. Then he said—” His voice trips. Anger covers something softer.
Nick swipes at his cheek. “He called me a baby. Said I only get turns because my mom?—”
“Stop,” I say gently. “We don’t use our moms to hurt each other. Ever.”
Mason flinches, shame flashes over his little face—Nick’s chin wobbles.
“Listen up,” I go on. “Anger’s not a problem. It’s a signal. What you do with it, that’s on you. You want to hit something, you come see me. We put gloves on, we do rounds, you burn it clean. But in here?” I tap the floor with my boot. “In here, we use words, and we take care of people smaller than us. That’s the job.”
