“You’re not getting either.”
He sighs.
“Ms. Fierson, please don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
One of the men behind me drives a fist into my injured ribs.
White pain.
I gasp.
My vision tunnels.
“Talk,” the seated man says gently.
I swallow blood.
“Kill me,” I rasp. “See how expensive that makes your lives.”
His brow arches.
“Oh?”
“You kill me and two rival Nine families go to war over my corpse,” I say hoarsely. “Because they think I know something you’re hiding. You also light up half a dozen Alliance oversight committees who are already sniffing around your shell routes and excavation laundering.”
He goes still.
Just a fraction.
I push.
“You think I didn’t build insurance,” I continue. “You think I walked into this blind? I have data drops scheduled. Dead man switches. Names. Account numbers. Transit audit violations that would make your grandchildren radioactive.”
His eyes narrow.
“Where is this data.”
“Everywhere,” I lie smoothly. “Nowhere. Depends how alive I am.”
Silence stretches.
The man behind me shifts.
The seated man exhales slowly.
“You are… inconvenient,” he admits.
“I get that a lot.”
They escalate.
They don’t beat me bloody.
They don’t break bones.
They’re professionals.
They apply pain in precise, measured doses.
