Dad folded his paper and leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Sometimes your heart decides before your head catches up. Be honest about what it decided.”
I didn’t answer. Just rolled the glass between my palms, thinking about the scent she wore when she leaned into me earlier. The way her breath hitched when I brushed her cheek. That kind of tension didn’t come from nothing.
Ma turned back to the stove, pulling plates from the cabinet.
“You staying for dinner?” she asked.
“I can, if you want me to.”
“We always want you to.”
She cooked like she was feeding the block—roast chicken, sweet potatoes roasted in brown sugar, mac and cheese with the crispy corners, mustard greens with turkey tails. Dad poured ginger ale over ice like he was mixing something sacred—alcohol was out of the question at his age. That low trumpet in the background kept me grounded, but my mind was still tracing the curve of Sanaa’s lips.
Then my phone buzzed.
Sanaa. No words. Just a pin drop.
I stood.
“Dinner’s almost done,” Ma said, glancing at the clock.
“Rain check?”
She kissed my cheek and smoothed my collar like I was twelve again. “Go.”
Dad gave me a look, somewhere between warning and blessing. “Don’t just chase the fire, son. Find the warmth too.”
I didn’t say anything. Just stepped into the night, her location glowing on my screen like a pull I couldn’t fight.
14
Iknew Tariq would come the minute I asked. Still, when I saw him step out of his car—jaw set, shoulders high with restraint—I felt something coil in my chest. Not fear. Not quite worry. Something more intimate than both. A recognition of what it meant for him to be here. For me.
Smoke hadn’t asked. He told me. Said it was time Tariq heard the truth with his own ears—that the middleman dance was done, that too many people were catching heat for what only a few had lit. I didn’t argue. I never do when Smoke speaks like that. But I knew what I was walking into, and I knew what it would cost.
Tariq was clean. Straight-edge, always coloring inside the lines except when he had me bent over them. He took the job seriously—his job, his name, his principles. And I admired that. Loved it, even. But me—I’ve always known the world was blurrier than that. I toe the line, maybe lean too close sometimes, but I don’t cross it. Not really.
Still, this—bringing him here—this was different. I was asking him to step into the murk with me. He didn’t say anything right away, just looked at the building, then at me.
“Sanaa.”
He said my name as a question and a warning not to get him mixed up in some mess.
“I know,” I murmured. “But if you want real answers about that fire, this is where you’ll get them.”
He took another beat. His eyes never left mine. “This ain’t the kind of place I’d normally walk into without my gun.”
“I know.” I stepped closer. “But you’ve got me.”
His mouth twitched like he might smile, but didn’t. He just exhaled through his nose and followed me through the heavy steel door.
The Strip District felt colder at night. Even with all the developments, there were still pockets of old Pittsburgh here—warehouses with rusted scaffolding, cobblestone underfoot, secrets sealed into brick. Smoke Enterprises was one of those secrets, and tonight it cracked open.
Inside, the air was warmer but not by much. Dim lighting. The faint echo of our boots on concrete. And standing there waiting—broad, bald, and damn near unmissable—was Butch.
My heart ached for him and his wife because I knew how much their belongings meant to them. How much she meant to him.
“Evenin’,” he said, deep voice rumbling like an engine. “Miss Ellison.”
