"We'll walk," I said.
Philippe's smile widened. "Ah. The Parisian way."
He escorted us to the exit, holding the door as we stepped out into the night.
The air was cool and clear, the city humming with life around us.
It was the most perfect night I could remember.
Except that wasn't quite right.
My mind swam back—unbidden, unwanted—to another night. Years ago. A roof at St. Paul's. Nine of us lying on our backs, tethered to ropes in case we slipped, staring up at the stars.
We'd talked about the future. About who we'd become. About the lives we'd build once we got out.
Brothers bound by hell.
I blinked, shaking the memory loose.
Mila was asking me something.
"Sorry," I said. "What?"
She smiled. "I asked if you always eat like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're starving."
I grinned. "Only when the food's good."
We walked slowly, side by side, close enough that our shoulders brushed.
Then I noticed them.
Five men. Walking toward us. At first, I thought nothing of it—just pedestrians, same as us.
But their path converged with ours, and my instincts kicked in.
Algerian, by the looks of them. Young. Cocky. The kind of energy that said they were looking for trouble.
They started speaking—rapid French I couldn't follow.
Mila replied, her tone polite. "Sorry, we're American."
At that, their eyes lit up.
The skinniest one—lazy eye, bad teeth—started rattling off American celebrities like he was reciting a grocery list. "Jennifer Lopez! Brad Pitt! Beyoncé!"
I stepped between them and Mila, angling my body to shield her.
"Excuse us," I said, and tried to walk past.
One of them grabbed my arm.
There was no decision. Just instinct.
I twisted, broke his grip, and drove my elbow into his forearm. The bone snapped with a wet crack, and he screamed, dropping to the ground.
