Rome tapped a finger against the table. “We have the footage. And the soundtrack.”
Only pure utter idiots record their own crimes and boast about them. The young one went pale.
Leto tried for nonchalance. “If one of my guys stepped over a line, we can handle?—”
“You had three weeks to handle it. You did nothing.”
“So you drag us down into a sewer and lecture us,” the older man said. “What do you want, Crow? An apology? We can send flowers to your girl if it makes you feel better.”
Rome’s smile vanished.
I didn’t move for a second.
Then I stepped around the table.
Leto’s eyes tracked me. The older man’s hand twitched toward his waistband before he remembered we’d already swept them for weapons on the way in. The young one sat frozen, breathing too fast.
I stopped behind the older man’s chair. Rested my hand on the back of it.
“Do you know where you are?” I asked.
He tried to twist to look. I tightened my grip on the chair and he stilled.
“Under Black Vault,” he snapped. “Under your casino. We get it. You have basements. You own the sewers. Big deal.”
Rome’s chuckle was low. “People really don’t listen,”
“These tunnels run the length of Villain. Ports. Clubs. Courts. Half the syndicates in this city whisper secrets above our heads and think the walls don’t have ears. They forget who poured the concrete. Who paid for the cameras.” I leaned in. “We don’t own the sewers. We own the bloodstream.”
Silence for a moment. I straightened, fingers drumming once on the back of his chair.
“You run petty operations in one artery. We let you, because it makes you feel important and it keeps certain problemsconcentrated where we can see them. But don’t ever get confused about who this city belongs to.”
Leto’s jaw flexed. “Lord of Villain,” he said, the title sour. “We’ve all heard the stories.”
“Stories are for tourists. I prefer facts. Fact one: you owe us. Fact two: one of your men put hands on Crow. Fact three: you’ve been running unregistered shipments through lines that belong to us. Fact four: I decide whether you walk out of here with all your teeth.”
The young one swallowed audibly.
Leto tried to hold my gaze. “What do you want.”
“Simple.” I moved back to the head of the table. “Triple dues for the next six months. Your lease on D-line is revoked; access is now day-to-day at our discretion. And you deliver Rivas”—I watched the flinch—“to one of my men by sunrise. Breathing or not. I don’t care which.”
Shock flickered across his face. “Rivas is?—”
I tilted my head. “The man who stole from us.”
“You’re asking me to hand one of my people over to you,” Leto said.
“I’m telling you what you’re going to do if you want to keep operating in my city.” I let the words settle. “Or you can tell Hollis you lost a block because you wanted to protect a thief.”
The older man shifted again. “We’re not your dogs, Crow. You don’t give us commands.”
Rome picked at something at the table, like he was bored. “You are in our tunnels, owing us money, asking for leniency. It’s a bit dog-coded, if you think about it.”
I almost smiled.
Leto’s cheeks flushed. “You threatened to pull our lease from the docks last year. You didn’t. You need us. That line takes heat you can’t afford. If Hollis pulls out, everyone notices the gap. Your whole ‘untouchable’ thing starts to?—”
