I type back:
Guy from yesterday. Wanted to thank me.
Miguel:Be careful.
Always am.
The biggest lie I've ever told, and I tell it while staring at a man who could destroy everything I've built, everything Miguel's protected, everything that keeps me safe.
"Your brother's having me watched," Zane says quietly, not a question.
"Your President wants something from the Ghost Clinic," I respond, equally quiet. "Protection, probably. Control, definitely."
"How do you—"
"Because that's what MCs do. They claim territory, even the medical kind."
"You know who I am."
"You know who I am."
"We're fucked."
"Completely."
The coffee arrives. We both drink it black, bitter, temperature somewhere between lukewarm and disappointing—a metaphor for our future if I've ever tasted one.
"Angel," he says, so quietly only I can hear.
"Diablo," I respond, and watch his pupils dilate.
"We're really doing this?"
"Apparently."
"Your brother—"
"Will kill you, yes."
"My club—"
"Will start a war, probably."
We stare at each other over terrible coffee, both fully aware of the catastrophe we're orchestrating, both completely unable to stop.
"I should go," I say, not moving.
"You should," he agrees, also not moving.
"This is insane."
"Our brand."
My phone buzzes again. Emergency at the warehouse district. Multi-vehicle accident. They need all hands. The universe's timing remains impeccable—saving me from myself by throwing other people's disasters at me.
"I have to go," I say, and this time I mean it. "Emergency call."
"The warehouse district?" He's already pulling out his wallet, throwing cash on the table. "That's not safe territory."
