Something in my chest fractures, but before I can figure it out, anger pours over every inch of me like lava, burning everything in its wake.
“I’m the reason half our jobs didn’t go sideways. I’m the one taking hits while you sit back moving pieces like it’s a fucking board game. How does it feel, Bishop? To not be in control, hm?”
“Boys,” Coco says mildly.
Bishop rounds the table, taking a step toward me, his voice dropping. “She cut and run years ago, and if you think she won’tdo it again, you’re a fucking idiot. That girl would sell you out in a sec?—”
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” I grind out, taking a step toward him.
He studies me for half a beat too long.
The corner of his mouth twitches upward, eyes crinkling at the edges while something cold flashes behind them—that same look he gave me when we were kids and he'd figured out which buttons to push.
My stomach drops as his words form before he even speaks them.
“You didn’t protect her then, and you’re sure as fuck not doing it now. And if you’re so desperate for a fuck, I’m sure she’d give it up for a hell of a lot less than one-eighth of our cut.”
The world goes white-hot, my vision narrowing to a pinpoint focused on Bishop's smug face.
I swing on him, my knuckles already burning with the anticipation of impact. At the last second, some buried instinct makes me pull back just enough so it doesn't land full force. My fist connects with his face in a sickening crack that vibrates up my arm. His head jerks to the right, a spray of blood catching the evening sun.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Rafe and Cruz moving toward us. Bishop drags the back of his hand underneath his nose with a wild sort of grin.
“Goddamnit, Bishop,” I snap, preparing myself for the chaos that is my brother.
He’s an underground fighter, for fuck’s sake. I can hold my own, but I’m not in the ring every fucking week like he is.
He doesn’t say anything as he lunges toward me. His fist clips my cheekbone instead of my jaw, and pain explodes bright and sharp like a flashbulb behind my eyes. My body reacts before my brain catches up, muscle memory from a thousand backyardbrawls taking over. I drive my fist into the soft spot between his ribs where I know it'll hurt, feel the solid meaty thud of knuckle against flesh, hear the half-grunt he tries to swallow. I follow with a shot to his shoulder, my arm a piston, the impact jarring all the way to my teeth as my knuckles connect with the hard ridge of his collarbone.
“Fuck!” Cruz barks. “Can we not do this on taco day?”
Bishop grins as he grabs a fistful of my shirt, the cotton bunching between his white-knuckled fingers, and yanks with enough force to make my neck snap forward. We slam chest to chest, the collision knocking air from my lungs, our ragged breath mixing in the inches between our faces—beer and blood and fury.
“Don’t you fucking do it,” I warn, already bracing for what’s coming. I’ve seen it hundreds of times in the ring, right before he headbutts his opponent and it’s lights-out.
His eyes narrow as he swings again. I catch his arm mid-arc, feel the coiled muscle beneath my grip, and shove him backward into the table hard enough that plates jump and silverware clatters against ceramic like wind chimes in a storm.
“Enough,” Coco says.
My eyes flick to her for half a second—just long enough for Bishop's knuckles to slam into my lower lip, splitting it against my teeth. Something warm and metallic pools beneath my tongue. I plant both palms against his chest and heave, feeling the solid resistance of muscle before he loses balance and staggers backward.
“Rafe.” Coco’s voice is a blade leaving its sheath.
Rafe’s between us in a heartbeat, one hand braced on my chest, the other shoving Bishop back. “Break it up,” he snaps. “Both of you.”
“Get off me,” Bishop snarls, shoving Rafe’s hand off of him.
Rafe plants his feet. “You done?” he asks Bishop, low. Then to me, “You?”
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, breathing hard. The red haze is thinning, leaving pain and clarity behind.
I glance at Coco.
She hasn't moved from her chair, rim of the margarita glass pressed against her bottom lip, eyes tracking us with the quiet calculation of someone compiling evidence for future use.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “I’m done.”
Bishop exhales sharp through his nose, jaw tight, then gives a single, jerking nod.
