I chose.
I prospected alongside Zenon, did the grunt work, proved myself.
Earned my patch. Worked my way up from nothing to something.
When Salvo stepped down, he handed me the gavel and told me not to fuck it up.
I haven't. At least not yet.
But some days, the weight of it presses down so hard I can barely breathe.
Around midnight, I step outside for air.
The parking lot is quiet, the noise of the party muffled by the closed doors.
I lean against the brick wall, pull out a cigarette, light it.
The smoke burns my lungs in a way that feels almost good. Familiar.
I should quit.
Zenon's been on my ass about it for years, but everyone needs a vice, and this one's less destructive than most.
I'm halfway through the cigarette when I hear voices.
Low. Tense. Coming from the far end of the lot, near the row of bikes.
I don't move. Don't react. Just tilt my head slightly, letting the shadows hide me while I listen.
"—told you to smile." A man's voice. Cain. "That's all I fuckin’ asked. Smile, be friendly, don't embarrass me in front of my brothers."
"Ididsmile." A woman's voice. Ripley. Quiet. Scared. "I was trying?—"
"You were trying? That's your excuse?" A harsh laugh. "You were standing there like a fuckin’ statue. Everyone could see it. Everyone was looking at you and thinking what the hell is wrong with Cain's woman?"
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean?—"
"You never mean anything, do you? You never fuckin’ mean it."
I move without thinking, stepping away from the wall, walking toward the sound of their voices.
I tell myself it's just curiosity. Just making sure there's no trouble in my parking lot.
I'm lying to myself.
I round the corner and stop.
Cain has her pinned against his bike, his hand wrapped around her throat.
Her feet are barely touching the ground.
Her hands are clawing at his wrist—not fighting, not really, just scrabbling uselessly—and her face is turning red from the pressure.
Her eyes find mine.
Terror. Pure, animal terror. And underneath it, something worse.
Resignation.
