Bridger gestures wildly now, hands slicing through the air like he’s had enough of holding back. Damian doesn’t move. He just stands there, eating it, jaw tight, eyes flat. Like he’s already somewhere else in his head.
We watch them climb into the SUV—Bridger slamming his door, Damian gripping the wheel like it personally insulted him. The headlights flare against the street, and then they’re pulling away, taillights bleeding red down the block until they disappear around the corner.
I slam the window shut, harder than I mean to, and turn on Neve.
“Do you think this has something to do with my father?” My stomach turns. “If you know anything,” I say, “please tell me.”
She blinks at me, startled.
“Because this is more than just him hiding a text message from another woman,” I snap. “This is a hell of a lot more, isn’t it?”
Neve nods, then reaches out and takes my hand. “Come on,” she says gently. “Let’s open a bottle of wine, and I’ll tell you everything I know.”
I let her pull me toward the kitchen.
It’s immaculate.
I stop in the doorway, blinking at the gleaming counters and spotless floor like I’ve stepped into someone else’s apartment. “Wait. Did you just clean all this by yourself?”
Neve shrugs like it’s nothing, already reaching for the wine rack. “I couldn’t leave it like that.” She pulls out a bottle of red and pops the cork. But when she opens the cabinet, her hands pause midair. “Oh right. All your wine glasses didn’t survive Damian’s temper tantrum.” She grabs two oversized coffee mugs instead, filling them both to the brim like she’s prepping us for battle.
She hands me the mug, and I wrap both hands around it, even though it’s too full to drink without spilling. I don’t sip. I just hold it. Waiting.
My heart thuds so hard it feels like it’s vibrating in my throat. Every breath I take is shallow, clipped at the top like my lungs won’t let it in all the way. The wine smells sharp, the room too quiet. My fingers go numb around the ceramic.
I hate this part—the in-between. The knowing something’s wrong but not knowing what. It’s like standing in a burning room and not being able to see the flames yet.
I glance at Neve. She’s not talking yet,why is she not talking yet?Is she waiting for me to take a sip? Okay, fine. I raise the mug and take a huge pull. The wine hits my tongue bitter and bold, too dry for how fast I swallow it. It burns on the way down, tangling with the tight coil of anxiety in my stomach like it’s trying to cut through it. I swallow again. Harder. Half the mug’s gone before I stop. I set the mug down and look at Neve. “Okay,” I say, voice steadier than I feel. “Talk.”
Neve picks up the bottle again and tops off my mug. The wine sloshes close to the rim, and I brace my hands around it again like it's something solid to hold onto. “Clay’s out of jail.”
I blink, confused. “Clay, their father?” My chest tightens again, the edges of my breath starting to fray. I feel like I’m missing something obvious, like there’s a conversation happening just out of my hearing, and I’m the last one to know. “Okay… but what does that mean?”
Neve’s eyebrows lift slightly, like she’s surprised. Then she leans back against the chair and lets out a breath. “Wow,” she says softly. “He really hasn’t told you anything, has he?”
A flush rises under my skin, heat blooming across my chest in a wave of adrenaline that spikes sharp and fast. My fingers tighten around the mug. I can feel the tremor in them now, the way my body always reacts before my mind can catch up. Thatslippery tilt into panic. He’s been keeping things from me. Not little things. Not harmless things. Big things. Dangerous things. I set the mug down harder than I mean to. The thud echoes in the quiet kitchen. “Okay,” I say, my voice tight and sharp. “Why don’t you go ahead and tell me what you know—since apparently, I’m the only one here who doesn’t know shit.”
Neve’s eyes widen slightly, but I don’t back down.
The wine burns in my chest now, a low heat under the crackling edge of fury. “So go ahead, Neve. Let’s play catch Marlowe up. What the hell don’t I know?”
“Clay’sthe guy,” she says. “Like, the head of everything. Ran this criminal ring out of the motorcycle shop—guns, underground games, sex workers, debt collections, all of it.”
I blink. “The shop? You mean Cross & Sons?”
She nods slowly. “It was just a front, but underneath? Full-on organized crime.”
My stomach turns. My throat goes dry. “God,” I whisper. “The boys grew up in that?”
Neve lifts her eyes to mine, and they’re darker now. Heavier. “Grew up around it?” she echoes. “Marlowe, Damian was his right-hand man. He wasn’t just nearby—he was in it. All of them were. And when Clay went away, Damian had to take over. Had to keep things from blowing up, and he was just a kid.”
Something in me buckles. I lean back against the chair, trying to breathe through the weight of it. The way everything suddenly shifts, all the missing pieces clicking into place with the kind of sound that makes your heart sink. “I mean, I knew he worked for Joel?—”
“Joel worked for Clay. They all worked for Clay,” she says. Neve takes a long sip from her mug, then sets it down and starts folding a paper napkin that was already half-crumpled on the table. Her fingers are quick, fidgety—like if she keeps them busy, it’ll be easier to say these things out loud.
I take a drink. A big one. “So?” I ask, voice tight. “Now that Clay’s out, he’s just going to work for him again? Is that what the problem is?”
Neve stops folding. Her fingers freeze, pressing a hard crease through the napkin. Then she looks up. “Lo,” she says, gentle but firm. “Damian sold the shop. And the house. He killed Joel. And Zero. I don’t think Clay wants him to work for him again,” she says quietly. “I think he wants all his kids dead.”
