“I don’t unpack fast,” I reply.
That earns a grunt of approval.“You’re not acting like an old lady.”
“I’m not one.”
“Good.”He moves on.
Another man, a newer patch with restless energy, lingers too long by the bar, clearly waiting for something.I finally sigh.
“If you’re going to ask,” I say without looking at him, “do it before I finish this coffee.”
He startles.“Didn’t mean...”
“I know,” I say.“What is it?”
He hesitates.“Do you think Savage made the right call?Waiting on the cartel to make the first move?”
There it is.I turn slowly, setting my mug down.“Are you asking me as his woman, or as someone who knows how pressure works?”
His jaw tightens.“Both.”
I hold his gaze.“Savage doesn’t make calls lightly.And he doesn’t need me to justify them.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Yes,” I say evenly, “it is.”
He studies me for a moment, then nods and backs off.The exchange isn’t hostile but it’s telling.They’re looking for reassurance.From me.
But I can’t give it because it’s not my place.
By late afternoon, the weight of it settles fully into my chest.I find Mama M in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, expression sharp as she dices onions.
“You look like you’re carrying something heavy,” she says without looking up.
“I am.”She waits.“I think I broke something,” I say finally.
Her knife pauses.“No.”
I glance at her.“You’re not even going to ask what?”
“I know what,” she replies.“And you didn’t break it.You exposed it.”That’s ...not comforting.She finally looks at me.“Men don’t like mirrors.Especially when they don’t recognize the man staring back.”
“I don’t want to be a mirror,” I mutter.
She snorts.“Then you picked the wrong life.”
I lean against the counter.“They’re hesitating.”
“Yes.”
“That gets people hurt.Or killed.”
“It does.”
“And Savage...”I stop.
Mama M’s gaze sharpens.“Savage chose.”
