I exhale slowly. “We took a vote.” The words feel like a misstep the second they leave my mouth.
“A vote without me,” she murmurs, glancing around the table.
“The majority took it,” Rafe says.
She nods slowly, anger tightening her gaze. “What kind of take?” she asks.
This is my opening, maybe the only one I’ll get.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “With Bellamy, seven-fifty, maybe more if we play it right.”
Coco hums low in her throat—the sound she makes when she’s running numbers instead of emotions.
Then she looks at Bishop. I try to not let it sting.
“Is that true?”
He shrugs, one shoulder hitching higher than the other, gaze dropping to the table before meeting hers again with reluctant steadiness. “That’s what they said.”
“And what doyouthink?” she presses.
“I think this job has a lot of variables, including the take. But I got outvoted, so I’m gonna take every fucking penny we can,” Bishop says.
A needle of resentment worms its way underneath my skin. Bishop. Always fucking Bishop. The golden son whose judgment she trusts even when he's on the wrong side.
Coco sits back, studying us like entries in a ledger instead of her sons.
“All right,” she says at last. Her smile is small, exacting. “You boys want to be men and take votes without me? Then you get to carry the weight like men too. You voted the job in. That means you own it—all of it. If it goes well, we celebrate.” She pauses, and her gaze hardens. “And if it goes sideways, you do not come crying to me. You don’t ask me to fix it. At least not for free.”
Bishop's jaw tightens as he dips his chin once, eyes never leaving Coco's face. Rafe's nod is curt, military. Cruz lifts his brows, like he’s unsurprised. My own head feels heavy as I lower it, the taste of blood still sharp on my tongue.
Coco takes a slow sip of her drink. “We have rules about outsiders for a reason. You boys think you’re grown enough to make your own rules, that’s your business. But if she brings trouble to my door.” She pauses, letting her gaze bore into mine. “I’ll send your brother to clean up your mess.”
It's not an idle threat. Her words hang in the air like a promise written in smoke.
I sit back, chest tight as a clenched fist, the taste of blood coating my tongue. My heart hammers against my ribs, adrenaline still buzzing under my skin like electricity searching for ground.
Because the truth burns like acid in my veins: I made my choice the instant Bellamy appeared on that sidewalk, her shadow stretching toward me like a lifeline I'd drown for.
And God help me, I'd do it again with a knife at my throat and my family watching.
19
BELLAMY
By 11:02,the dash lights are the brightest thing in the parking lot.
Two and a half hours of recon, and my notebook has exactly two changes worth noting in it.Two. That’s how dead this street is.
The night air drifts through the cracked windows and the half-open sunroof, cool enough to keep me alert but not cold. I can hear the faint hum of traffic from a bigger road somewhere behind us, but here—across from Highlight Entertainment’s alley—it’s quiet. Too quiet to justify the amount of caffeine vibrating through my bloodstream.
Next to me, Cruz hasn’t moved. Not really. He shifted forward once to grab his drink from the cup holder, but otherwise he’s been in the same slouched, statuesque position the entire time. Legs stretched out, ankle crossed over his knee, hands loose against his stomach. Completely at ease.
I’m mid-scan of the storefronts when he finally speaks.
“When you said recon, I didn’t realize it came with stationery,” he murmurs.
I blink. “What?”
