If Maria’s compromised, I need to extract that information without letting whoever’s controlling her know we’re onto them.
If she’s complicit, I need to know why, who she’s working with, and what they want.
If she’s innocent and this is about theft or frame job, I need to know who had access to her equipment and where they are now.
Any way this goes, someone’s giving me answers.
And if they don’t give them willingly, I’ll take them by force.
The Ramirez dealership comes into view—a sprawling complex of showrooms and service bays, high-end cars gleaming under the lights. After hours now, most of the staff gone home, just a few security guards and the overnight maintenance crew.
And Maria Ramirez herself, because according to Cal’s research, she’s been working late every night this week.
Convenient.
“Marcus, you and Chen take the back entrance. Rodriguez, you’re with me. Anyone tries to leave, you stop them. Anyone tries to call out, you jam them. Clear?”
“Clear, boss.”
We move in smooth formation, years of working together making the approach effortless. I don’t draw my weapon yet—don’t want to escalate until I know what I’m walking into.
The front entrance is locked, but that’s never stopped me before. Twenty seconds with my picks and we’re in, moving through the darkened showroom, past rows of luxury vehicles, toward the offices in the back.
Light spills from under one door. Maria’s office, according to the nameplate.
I can hear her voice—on the phone, speaking rapid Spanish. My Spanish is decent enough to catch the gist.
She’s arguing with someone. About money. About a deal gone wrong. About needing more time.
Rodriguez and I position ourselves outside the door. I signal him to stay back, then push the door open smoothly.
Maria jumps, her phone clattering to the desk. Her hand goes to her drawer—where she probably keeps a weapon—but I’m already moving, crossing the distance, my hand slamming the drawer shut before she can reach it.
“Hello, Maria,” I say pleasantly. “We need to talk.”
43
CAL
Noah’s asleep on my chest, his small body finally relaxed after an hour of trembling, his breathing deep and even. His face is turned toward me, one tiny hand fisted in my shirt like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.
He looks so much like me it’s almost painful.
Same honey-amber eyes—currently closed, but I’ve seen them when he’s awake, sharp and observant, taking in everything around him. Same nose, same jawline that’s going to be sharp when he grows up, same tendency to go quiet and still when processing information instead of talking it out.
But he’s also so much like Silas.
The way he finds calm in chaos. The way he stopped shaking the moment I picked him up and started analyzing the security feeds, like the familiar rhythm of work and screens and data somehow soothed him. The way he processes fear by going internal instead of external, thinking instead of crying.
I’ve seen it before—that particular combination of analytical thinking and emotional control that only comes from learning too young that the world isn’t safe.
Silas learned it at eighteen when his parents had him forcibly sterilized.
I learned it at twelve when I watched my father beat my mother unconscious and realized no one was coming to save us.
And now Noah’s learning it at five because someone opened fire on him in a park.
Fuck.
