That was the thing about Sebastian: he knew exactly what kind of man I was. He’d seen firsthand just how far I could be pushed. What kind of work I’d bury beneath layers of silence and classified stamps if it meant protecting Remy. I didn’t like that he knew me so well. It made him dangerous.
Now he was sitting across from me knowing damn well I wasn’t here because of Max Romano or weapons charges. I was here because I’d spent years proving to Sebastian I’d do whatever Remy needed no matter the cost.
“Max send you in here?”
“No.”
“You’re quieter than usual,” Sebastian said, leaning back. “Guilt catching up to you?”
“No,” I admitted.
He watched me carefully. “I should’ve known they’d throw you on this.”
“I haven’t been thrown on anything yet.”
Sebastian leaned forward, cuffs scraping softly against the tabletop. “Then what is it? You here to make sure I stay put, or just couldn’t resist another chance to lecture me?”
I stared back at him evenly, refusing to rise to the bait. “Mostly, I’m trying to figure out how someone as smart as you keeps managing to do such stupid things.”
His smirk widened slightly, amused despite himself. “Missed this, you know. Nobody else quite measures up when it comes to self-righteous judgment.”
“I’m sure you’ve earned every bit of it.”
Sebastian sat back, chains rattling again. “Funny how quickly you forget your own sins when it’s convenient.”
“I didn’t forget anything,” I bit out. “But at least when I cross a line, I know exactly why. Can you say the same?”
“You always were good at justifying your bullshit.”
“And you were always terrible at keeping your head down.”
Sebastian’s lip twitched again, but this time without any humor. Men like Callahan knew exactly how far to push and when to hold back. Unfortunately, he’d never been good at the latter.
“I was keeping my head down until your Italian started poking around my docks. Tell Romano if he minds his own business, we don’t have a problem.”
“Your docks?” I asked quietly, raising an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware the Callahans owned the waterfront now.”
“We don’t put our name on everything we own. You, of all people, should appreciate discretion.”
“Discretion,” I repeated slowly, tasting the irony. “That’s a rich word coming from a man sitting in cuffs.”
“And yet we both know I’ll be out before dawn. You’re not here because of weapons charges, Marco. You’re here because Romano’s losing control, and he sent you to remind me he still has some.”
“I’m here,” I began, “because you keep forgetting there are consequences to crossing the wrong lines.”
“And which lines are those, exactly? Romano redraws them every time he gets bored.”
“You know the lines,” I said quietly. “You used to draw them yourself. You should know better than to threaten Romano in his own city.”
Sebastian leaned back slowly. “It’s not a threat. Just good business advice. Tell Romano, if he keeps interfering in mine, I’ll stop respecting his.”
Men like Callahan and Romano, they never stopped pushing. Never stopped playing their dangerous games. I’d built my career cleaning up after their wars, and something told me this one was far from over.
Sebastian’s attention fell to my arm. “How’s your arm holding up, by the way? Still aching every time the weather turns?”
I stiffened, the scar on my bicep suddenly burning like it remembered the bullet.
The injury was classified—something even my own team wasn’t aware of—but James Callahan had always known too much. The Feds had been deep in bed with JSOC since before I enlisted—intelligence, targets, deniable ops—all quietly coordinated between DC and soldiers whose names would never make official records. James had seen my files, knew about the missions I still wasn’t legally allowed to acknowledge.
