She watches him a beat longer than necessary, then lets it drop.
I fill in the rest in broad strokes—the window, the movement, the scale. I leave Bellamy out of it entirely.
When I finish, Coco hums, gaze unfocusing the way it does when she’s running numbers. “Ambitious,” she says. “A lot of moving parts. Complicated. Risky.” A pause. “Certainly possible. But there are easier jobs.”
“Easier,” Bishop mutters. “And better ones.”
That gets her attention.
The corner of her mouth twitches upward—not quite a smile. “Ah,” she says, voice dropping to a silken whisper that somehow cuts through the evening air more effectively than a shout. “I see.”
His jaw locks, a muscle twitching beneath the stubble on his left cheek. “See what?” The words come out clipped, each syllable hard as stone.
“This wasn’t your idea,” she murmurs.
He makes a sound in the back of his throat, lips curling at the edges, eyes hard. “Of course it wasn't.”
My teeth grind together, the click audible in my skull. “And what's that supposed to mean?”
Coco's gaze slides across the table, lingering on each of our faces—Bishop's tight jaw, my clenched fists, Cruz’s stillness, Rafe’s fingers drumming against his thigh—before returning to me with the weight of a loaded gun. Her lips curve into that smile I've seen a thousand times, the one that says she's already three steps ahead of whatever game we think we're playing. “Whose idea is it, honey?”
Bishop chuckles, but there’s no humor in his laugh. “Take a wild guess, Coco.”
Something cold slides down my back. I force the word out. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
He leans back, arm slung over the chair like he's relaxed, but his jaw's grinding hard enough I can almost hear his molars cracking. The tendons in his neck stand out like ropes. “It means this job is risky. Overestimated payout, underestimated security, and a sketchy timeline.” He tilts his head, eyes cold as he flashes me a condescending grin. “Don't worry, man. It's not your fault. This isn't your lane, Gage. You break doors and lift heavy shit. That's your role in the family.”
“Jesus Christ, Bishop,” Cruz drawls, dragging his hand down his face.
Our oldest brother just lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “What? We all have our roles in the family.”
My fingers curl around my beer bottle until my knuckles bleach white. I inhale through my nose, counting to three, the way I learned in juvie. Bishop's face across the table blurs at the edges, his smirk swimming in my vision as my pulse hammers in my ears. I’m three seconds away from reaching across the table,grabbing my asshole brother by the collar, and punching that pretty-boy smirk off his face.
“Last I checked, we all bring ideas to the table. You just can’t stand it that my idea is better than yours.”
“Your idea, hm?” Bishop says, arching his brow.
Something sharp twists between my ribs. I mentally scream at my brother to keep his fucking mouth shut. This is not how I’m telling Ma about Bellamy.
“Say what you actually mean,” I say through gritted teeth.
Bishop leans back, folding his arms across his chest, lips curling into something that isn't quite a smile. “Come on, you really want us to believe you’re not doing all this to impress her? Talkingmid-six figureslike you didn’t pull that number out of your ass just to look like you’re more than Calloway muscle.”
Bishop's words land exactly where he aimed them, but I've heard this shit from him every night for a week—in the garage when I first mentioned the job, again over beers when I showed him the blueprints, yesterday morning when he caught me checking my phone for her messages.
My jaw tightens as heat crawls up my neck. “Fuck you, man. This is a solid job.”
His eyes flick—just once. Fast enough most people would miss it. Something passes over his face—a flicker of regret, maybe, before it hardens. “You're chasing pussy and calling it a job,“ he says, voice quieter than before, like part of him wishes he could take it back even as he doubles down.
18
GAGE
Something snaps inside me.My chair skids against concrete as I surge to my feet. “Say that again. I fucking dare you.”
Rafe’s weight comes off his chair. Cruz drops his taco with an irritated sigh.
Bishop rises slower, deliberate, meeting my height without breaking eye contact. “You don’t plan jobs, Gage. You execute them. That’s the division of labor. And now suddenly you want us to gamble everything because you want to fuck some girl you liked ten years ago? Grow up.”
