"Yeah." I lean back, the chair creaking beneath my weight. "Five years, Vult. Five fucking years I spent hating her, and she was—" My voice breaks, and I slam my fist against the table.
Vulture waits, giving me space to pull myself together. He was there for the aftermath—the drinking, the fighting, the women. The spiral that nearly cost me my patch before I channeled the rage into something useful. Into hunting traffickers.
"Does this affect club business?" he finally asks, always focused on the bottom line.
"No," I say automatically, then reconsider. "Maybe. I don't know."
"Figure it out," he says, not unkindly. "This is bigger than your personal shit now. The Reapers are involved, and we've got their men in our basement. We need you focused."
I nod, running a hand through my hair. "I'm good. I'll handle it."
Vulture's skeptical expression says he doesn't believe me, but he stands anyway. "Interrogation in ten. Clean yourself up."
After he leaves, I sit in the quiet, memories surfacing like bodies in a lake.
Cara laughing, her head thrown back, sunlight catching in her hair as we rode along the coast. The way she'd curl against me at night, fitting perfectly against my side. The ring in my pocket for weeks before I found the courage to ask. Her tears when she said yes.
I force the images away, standing so quickly the chair topples behind me. The past is a luxury I can't afford right now.
Ten minutes later, I'm in the basement interrogation room, face washed, fresh t-shirt under my cut, expression locked down tight. The trafficker sits handcuffed to a metal chair, his face already showing the results of an earlier conversation with Ice Pick. One eye swollen shut, split lip crusted with dried blood.
"Morning, sunshine," I say, circling him slowly. "Sleep well?"
He spits on the floor near my boots. "Lawyer."
I laugh, the sound sharp enough to cut glass. "This look like a police station to you?" I lean in close, watching him flinch. "No lawyers. No rights. Just you and me and all the time in the world."
Fear flickers in his one good eye. Good.
"The women you took," I continue, voice conversational as I pull on a pair of leather gloves. "Where were they headed?"
"Fuck you."
The first blow catches him in the stomach, driving the air from his lungs. The second splits his eyebrow, blood trickling down his face. I wait until he can breathe again before asking the next question.
"The operation. How big is it?"
He wheezes, spitting blood. "You have no idea what you're messing with."
"Enlighten me." I grab his jaw, forcing him to look at me.
"We're just the transport," he gasps. "Small cogs. The organization—it's international. Powerful people. Politicians. Businessmen."
"Names," I demand, tightening my grip.
He laughs, a wet, broken sound. "Kill me if you want. I talk, they'll do worse. To me. To my family."
I release him with a shove, pacing the small room. "The women in that container. Why them? Why her?"
Something shifts in his expression. "Special requests. Some clients have... specific tastes."
My vision blurs red at the edges. "The woman with the scar on her collarbone. Who ordered her?"
"Don't know names. Just that she was a personal request. Expensive. The boss doesn't share the book with drivers."
"What book?"
"The ledger. All the merchandise, destinations, buyers. Coded." He smirks, blood staining his teeth. "Doesn't matter now. She's damaged goods anyway. Used up."
