He spat blood to the side, breathing hard. “We… move weight for you. We take heat you can’t.”
His hands flexed uselessly against my arm.
I hit him a third time.
The crunch was audible.
“Three.”
He sagged, barely held up by my grip now. Blood trickled from his nose. His eyes were glassy with pain and something else—fear, finally.
The older man at the table swallowed. His hands went flat on the metal, palms up like he was showing he wasn’t reaching for anything.
“All right. Message received.”
“You want to know why Hollis deals with us,” I asked.
I eased my forearm back a fraction, just enough that Leto could drag some air in.
“Because we don’t play at being kings. We are what we are. We don’t pretend Villain is a democracy. It’s not. You get to operate here because we decide it’s useful.”
I stepped back at last, pushing off the wall. Leto slid down it.
I flexed my hand once, blood tacky on my skin, then wiped it absently on Leto’s jacket.
“Terms haven’t changed,” I looked between them. “Triple dues. D-line lease revoked. Rivas delivered by sunrise.”
The older man nodded quickly. “We’ll get it done.”
Rome clapped his hands together once. “See? That wasn’t so hard. Next time we can all save ourselves some bruises if you just listen when we talk about the numbers.”
Leto coughed, spat more red onto the concrete. “You didn’t have to hit me.”
I met his gaze. “You didn’t have to protect a man who laid hands on ours.”
We stared at each other for a moment.
Something in his expression shifted. Resentment stayed. Respect edged in around it. Good.
“Consider this. You give us Rivas. You pay what you owe. We forget your name the second we walk out that door. You stay in your lane, we don’t have to meet like this again.”
“And if we don’t,” the young one asked.
Rome grinned. “Then my brother stops counting.”
I turned away, already done with them.
We stepped back into the corridor. The hatch shut with a metal thud that echoed down the tunnel.
Rome fell into step beside me, whistling again, the tension bleeding off him like smoke.
“You feel better?” he asked after a few strides.
I rolled my hand, assessing the ache. “A little.”
“You were… extra thorough.”
“They touched our runner. They stole from us. They thought we’d shrug it off because we’re ‘busy in the chambers.’”
