I let their voices wash over me as Rafe fills them in on our surprise visitor. Guilt starts to worm its way underneath my sternum. I don’t know who that was or how we missed it during all the recon. Or if this was bad luck or if we’re being watched. And that thought settles in my gut like a live wire instead of fear.
26
BELLAMY
By the timewe pull into the Calloway driveway, it’s close to three-thirty in the morning, and the night has that hollowed-out, half-awake feeling—like the world is holding its breath before dawn decides what kind of day it’s going to be.
The adrenaline is gone. Not vanished exactly, just burned down to a pleasant, humming buzz under my skin, still warm enough to feel but no longer dangerous. My jaw has unclenched for the first time in hours, and my shoulders have dropped from around my ears.
Rafe shifts from his position on the floor, unfolding his long legs until they bracket me on either side. A low sound—half groan, half sigh—escapes his throat, raw and unguarded in the cramped space.
The van lurches to a stop over uneven pavement, and I pitch forward, my palm slapping against the grimy metal floor just inches from where his thigh stretches beneath denim. His body heat radiates through the fabric, a reminder of how alive he still is. The bleeding stopped an hour ago, but my hands are still tacky with it—drying rust-colored flakes along my knuckles that crack when I flex my fingers, smeared faintly up my forearmsin finger-width streaks where I pressed the navy blue sweatshirt harder than necessary against his shoulder.
He's fine. Annoyingly fine, considering everything. The bullet carved a furrow across his shoulder, leaving behind a ragged gash that's already crusting at the edges. His skin has gone paper-white around the wound, but two spots of color burn high on his cheekbones. He's been riding the line between exhausted and wired ever since.
But his gaze always came back to me, skipping over my face like he was trying to memorize it.
The Calloway house looms against the pre-dawn sky like a geometric shadow cut from darker paper, its sharp rooflines absorbing what little moonlight remains. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t soften just because the sun eventually will.
Bishop twists the key in the ignition, killing the engine with a shuddering cough. “Let's unload, and then Gage, you take the van down to Tony's and get to work. Hales, we'll see you later.” His voice has that flat, non-negotiable quality he uses when he's trying to end something before it begins.
“We'll inventory together, then we'll be on our way,” I counter, shifting up on my knees. My joints crack in protest, muscles stiff from hours crouched in the same position.
“Fine,” Bishop grunts.
We pile out of the van in a loose cluster, joints popping and muscles stiff from hours of confinement. The garage yawns open to swallow us whole—concrete floors stained with old oil patches, pegboards lined with shadowy tools, the air thick with dust and the metallic tang of recent rain. We unload the van in silence, passing hard cases that click with expensive electronics, loose electronics wrapped hastily in moving blankets.
The Calloway garage is a neutral ground for this job. Like Switzerland. Garage feels like a misnomer really, since this specific garage is more like the Calloway bat cave.
The overhead lights flicker on with a low electric hum that vibrates the air. I roll my shoulders, wincing as the movement sends a dull ache down my spine. The weight in my backpack pulls against my shoulders, but it's the hard edges of gemstones and metal pressing between my breasts that's becoming unpleasant—diamond tennis bracelets and sapphire pendants nestled against my skin, their corners digging red impressions into flesh that's gone slick with sweat. I shift, feeling the cool slide of platinum chains against my sternum. Bishop's face when I pull two fistfuls of glittering contraband from my shirt will be worth every uncomfortable moment. I imagine his eyes widening just enough to betray surprise before he schools his expression back to neutral.
Gage and Cruz stack the sound board cases next to the table, their movements synchronized, cases landing with soft thuds against the concrete. The rest of us arrange everything on the table in the center of the garage. I unzip my backpack, the sound unnaturally loud in the tense quiet, and begin placing neat stacks of cash next to a lighting kit whose metal housing is dented at one corner.
The side door opens with barely a whisper against the concrete, and Coco materializes in the threshold like she's been waiting in the shadows all along. Her midnight-blue silk kimono catches the harsh garage lighting, transforming the fabric into something liquid and dangerous. Silver threads woven through the pattern flicker like distant lightning. Her hair—obsidian black with a single streak of silver at the temple—is swept into a perfect chignon that defies the hour, not a strand out of place. Her face is a masterpiece of control: lips pressed into a neutral line, eyes sharp as cut glass beneath perfectly arched brows. Those eyes sweep across our group in one fluid, calculating motion before locking onto the dark stain spreading across Rafe's shoulder.
“What happened,” she says. It’s not a question.
“I’m fine, Ma,” Rafe replies, slumping against the workbench.
“Inside,” she says calmly, pointing toward the house. “Your bathroom. I’ll be right there to patch you up.”
Rafe straightens a fraction, his spine going rigid as tension ripples across his wounded shoulder. For a heartbeat, rebellion flashes in his eyes—that familiar stubborn set to his jaw—then drains away like water through sand. He gives her a sharp nod, fingers flexing once at his sides before he crosses the concrete in three long strides and disappears through the door, the hinges releasing a soft, betraying whine behind him.
Coco waits until the door swings shut, the latch clicking with finality in the sudden silence. She turns back to us with the deliberate precision of a predator. “What happened?” The words fall like ice chips between us. Her eyes—dark as wet obsidian, rimmed with perfect winged liner despite the hour—land on Gage first, accusation bleeding from them like a wound that won't clot.
Gage lifts a shoulder, the movement deliberately casual. “Some asshole with a Glock and a god complex took a lucky shot through the window. Rafe got grazed. Bellamy stopped the bleeding in the van.” His voice has that forced lightness that doesn't reach his eyes.
“No,” she says, each word precisely carved from stone. “Yougot lucky.” Her perfectly manicured nail drags against her silk-covered forearm, the small sound somehow louder than it should be in the garage. “All of you. That’s the second job someone fucked up on, and this time, your brother got hurt.” She lets that accusation linger in the air.
She's not my mother, but her words still slice through me all the same. My spine straightens involuntarily, a childhood reflex I didn't know lived in my body until this moment.
“Luck is what amateurs rely on. And I know I raised you boys better than that. To be smarter than that,” Coco continues, strolling around the room slowly.
Gage's shoulders stiffen beneath his black henley, the fabric pulling taut across his shoulder blades as tension radiates through him like a current. His jaw locks, a muscle twitching beneath the stubble along his jawline, and his gaze hardens. But he doesn’t reply.
Coco's gaze flicks briefly to me—dark eyes cataloging every detail. Her pupils contract slightly, like camera shutters capturing evidence. Then she moves on, dismissing me with the practiced efficiency of someone who's spent decades sorting threats from assets.
“Good instincts,” she says, her voice honeyed but cool as a marble countertop. The words hang between us for three heartbeats before she adds, “Instincts don't replace oversight.” each syllable precise as the click of a safety being released.
