What had he done to them?
FOUR
Rio
“I’m trying Killian again,”Jamie said, already halfway to the door. “He was in court, but I’ll get him to head straight here.” He was on edge, his lighter in his hand, flicking it, and I thought about following him, but if Killian was on his way, he didn’t need me grounding him anymore.
Still, I hesitated. There was a strange sensation in my chest I didn’t know how to name. If I wasn’t useful to Jamie in this moment—if I wasn’t holding someone together or watching the door—then what the hell was I here for?
I shook it off. Intrusive, fucked-up thought. Not the time. Not the place.
Still, it lingered.
“Lyric?” Lyric glanced at Robbie. “Can I get you anything?”
Lyric’s eyes were glassy and red-rimmed. “I can’t…” His eyes flickered shut.
“No, open your eyes,” Robbie said. “Open them up. You need to take these.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out two small pills, then offered them with a cup of water.
I watched Lyric’s fingers shake as Robbie brought the pills to his lips, and when he tried to swallow, he winced. He touched his throat, as if it burned. And fuck, it probably did—I’d had him up against the wall by his neck not that long ago, and then I’d had my hands on him again. But fuck! Why wouldn’t he talk? If he was anything to do with Kessler, then he was bringing trouble to our doorstep. A stranger getting that close to my family? To Jamie. Robbie? Enzo? No. I’d do it again.
Guilt prickled low in my gut. Not much, but a flicker. I hadn’t been wrong to do it, but that didn’t mean it felt good now, watching him struggle to swallow. Didn’t mean I didn’t see the bruises forming under the stubble on his throat. I stayed quiet, arms crossed, eyes never leaving him. I was waiting. For a move. A lie. A tell.Something.
Robbie gave me a look—half warning, half worry—and left with Enzo. The room felt smaller the second they’d gone. Lyric blinked slowly, his eyelids growing heavier with every passing second. The drugs were kicking in. His head dropped forward, then jerked back up. He shifted, trying to get comfortable, but the angle was all wrong. He slumped sideways, curled in on himself.
I should’ve left. Walked out and let him sleep alone. We didn’t know his story. For all we knew, we’d be digging a hole for him tomorrow.
But Jesus, he was uncomfortable. Bent wrong, shoulders tense even as he drifted off.
I stood there a second longer, fists clenching and unclenching. Then, I grabbed a blanket from the back of the chair and dropped it over him without a word. He twitched but didn’t wake. His wrist shifted against the cuff, a slow, repetitive movement as if he were testing the tension, working it, wearing out the restraint. As if, even unconscious, he was trying to bleed himself free. Fighter, not a victim. And I didn’t trust him for a second.
I should’ve left it at that.
Instead, I leaned over him, hesitated, then slipped an arm under his shoulders and helped him ease down onto the bed. He was kind of small and lightweight—maybe a buck-fifty soaking wet. Long, floppy hair,and those eyes—fuck, those eyes. I don’t even know what color they were, not exactly, somewhere between green and grey, sharp and glassy.
He wasnothinglike Danny, apart from being small.
He’s not Danny.
He let out a small sound as I shifted him, and his fingers twitched against mine before going still again. I stood fast, brushing my hands on my jeans as if that would get the feel of him off me.
Didn’t mean anything. Just didn’t want him freezing to death before he could tell us what we wanted to know, and we figured out what the hell we were gonna do with him.
I was backin the garage the next morning, elbows-deep in the guts of a 1969 Mustang Fastback. Candy -apple red. Restored, but hadn’t seen the open road in years—just polished to hell and back, and rolled out for show.
I was aware, the whole time I worked, that it wasn’t my turn to sit with Lyric. We’d set up shifts. Keep eyes on him, see what he said when the drugs wore off, make sure he didn’t bolt or collapse.
But I hadn’t gone up yet. Not once.
It wasn’t only about not wanting to appear too eager—or even the guilt twisting in my gut. It was the way I’d seen him move in his sleep, the way he tested the cuff, the fight still burning under the surface. I didn’t trust him. I couldn’t trust someone who was that fragile but still searched for the cracks in the walls. That kind of determination didn’t come from fear alone. That kind of survivor? They were dangerous in a way most people never saw coming.
He could be a liar. He could be part of what had happened to Robbie. He could be a trafficker, a bad guy, a fucked-up asshole who needed to be taken out.
But…
I’d hurt him.
My hands were covered in grease, the good kind of mess that made sense. Oil, steel, bolts that bit, and gears that didn’t lie. There was silence in the work, focus, and there was nothing I enjoyed more than that quiet, when the only sound was the tick of a cooling engine or the low creak of a bolt giving way. Nothing unpredictable. Nothing that talked back or broke trust. Just mechanics. Clean, brutal honesty in a world that didn’t offer much of it otherwise.
