“OH MY LORD! Monroe! Are you serious? You’re pregnant? I’m going to be a grandmama?”
“You’re going to be a grandmama,” I confirm, laughing.
What follows is another twenty minutes of nonstop gushing. She asks about due dates and how I’m feeling. She offers tips and advice for things like my aching feet and the nauseaI’ve been dealing with. Then she insists she’s coming to Busan for the last part of my pregnancy and will be there when the baby is born.
There’s inevitable talk about baby names, where she rattles off some she’s always liked and explains that we should have a list of boyandgirl names ready just in case.
I let her ramble, my heart full.
By the time we hang up, Jin has set a steaming bowl of seolleongtang soup—otherwise known as Korean beef broth—on the coffee table in front of me, along with a fresh cup of tea.
“This smells sooo amazing,” I say, reaching for the spoon. “I’m starving. Apparently fighting off a mugger works up an appetite.”
Jin remains serious, hardly amused. “It better be the only time. Or I might just keep you from returning to that school, Tokki-ya.”
“It was a freak incident,” I insist, blowing on a spoonful of the rich beef broth. “A coincidence. Nothing more.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he drops the subject so I can eat my soup and we can watch some TV.
Meanwhile, I tell myself the same thing I told him.
The mugging was scary and a shock to the system. But it was a coincidence and nothing more.
9.Jin
The punching bagswings on its chain as I drive my fist into it again.
Jab. Jab. Cross. Hook. Roundhouse kick.
Sweat drips down my bare chest, clinging to the divots of muscle and sliding along the lines of my tattoos.
The gym in the Claw Lounge is empty at this early hour. Men won’t show up ’til later in the morning, which means I have the place to myself.
I launch another roundhouse kick, delivering a hard blow to the punching bag. It jerks back and forth, the chain clanging.
It feels good to crush my fist and other parts of me against it. Satisfying to drive my leg at the bag of sand and imagine my foe’s face on it.
I train like this regularly. Even as Baekho-je, I can’t afford to let my skills dull. The moment a leader relies solely on his men for protection is the moment he becomes vulnerable. I’ve seen what happens to vulnerable men in this world.
They end up like Jae-hyun, drunk and sloppy and taken out on a whim.
I’m resetting my stance when the door to the gym opens.
Park Min-gyu appears in the doorway, his bulky frame silhouetted against the light from the hall. My gaze drops immediately to the large bandage wrapped around his upper arm. A souvenir from the shootout outside the boxing arena.
I grab the towel draped over a nearby bench and mop the sweat from my face, my breathing still ragged from exertion.
“How is the injury?” I ask.
Min-gyu glances down at his arm and shrugs. “It’s healing and I’m alive. I have no complaints. I’m ready to return to hubae duties.”
I give a short nod of approval. Min-gyu is reliable and steadfast. He doesn’t complain or make excuses. These are qualities I value.
“We’ve started looking into the identity of the shooters,” he continues. “The obvious suspects are the Bulgeomhoe.”
I toss the towel over my shoulder, still shirtless, and gesture for him to follow.
“Walk with me.”
