He screamed. He begged. He broke in all the expected ways. But when he said the name—El Recaudador, The Collector—everything changed. His bravado didn't just crack. Itevaporated. His hands started to shake. Not from pain. From memory.
"You don't understand," he whispered hoarsely. "You don't know him."
I leaned closer, certain he was finally breaking. He shook his head, eyes glassy with something that was more than terror of death.
"You don't. You think you're the monster in this room. You're not."
That made me pause. Intrigued, I made him continue.
"He doesn't rush. He waits. Hecollects."
I leaned in closer, letting him feel my breath. "Everyone bleeds," I told him.
Joaquín shook his head. "Not him."
That wasn't fear of death. That was fear ofmemory. He was more terrified of the man who wasn't in the room than of me, standing right there, breaking him piece by piece. That kind of devotion—or leverage—doesn't come cheap. It's personal. And personal is dangerous.
There's always a bigger threat. I've lived long enough to know that. But this one doesn't feel like ambition or territory or power for power's sake. This feels like a man who's been waiting for a name to come back around:Mine.
The car slows as we near the perimeter.
Jenna shifts, studying my face. "You've been quiet."
I glance at her. "Thinking."
"About yesterday." It's not a question. The woman knows me too well, so I don't even try to deny it. "You don't have to protect me from it," she adds gently. "I want to be part of this."
I squeeze her hand once. "You already are."
She nods, resolute. Outside, my world waits, concrete, steel, men who understand orders without questions. Inside the car, something else settles into place. Partnership. Whoever El Recaudador is, whatever he thinks he's collecting, whatever ghosts he thinks he can cash in, he's welcome to come and try. I don't run. And I don't lose what's mine.
"Let me talk to you about this later," I look into her eyes, letting her know I mean it. "Let's get this done first."
She nods, but the color has drained from her face. Too pale. Too still. I should have made her stay home. The thought hits hard and late, the way regret always does. She turns to me, her eyes lift, steady despite everything.
"Call me," she repeats as if she can read my mind.
The words land like a strike to the chest. For a split second, I'm not here. I'm not walking into another reckoning. I'm back there—years ago—in a locker room that smelled like bleach and blood and panic. I see her shaking hands. The way she can't stop apologizing. The way I hold her while she cries until there is nothing left in her but resolve.
I was there.
I saw the aftermath.
I helped her clean up.
I helped her get rid of the body.
That was the night everything changed. The night lines were crossed that can never be uncrossed. She doesn't blink now. The fire in her eyes is still there. It always was.
Her lips press together, satisfied, and for a moment I see it clearly: this is not a woman who needs shielding. This is a woman who knows exactly what the cost is and chooses to stand anyway. I squeeze her hand one more time before letting go. We step out of the car. Steel. Concrete. Men waiting for orders. And somewhere in the back of my mind, a thought settles in with grim amusement: Nobody had better ever ask how we met.
Because if they do, there's no version of that story that doesn't end in silence or blood.
The Oven is already humming when we enter. Low heat. Controlled. Clinical. Everything exactly where it should be. Whitford is strapped to the gurney in the center of the room, wrists and ankles bound, head immobilized. The dead body beneath him—some man scheduled for today's burn—serves its purpose without needing explanation. Consequence, made literal. The message is unmistakable.
Marianne and Sean sit facing each other, chairs bolted to the floor, ropes tight around their torsos. Gags in their mouths. Terror has already stripped them of composure. Sean has sweated through his collar, and Marianne is pale and shaking, her eyes darting wildly as if escape might materialize if she looks hard enough.
Damiano approaches us. His eyes linger curiously on Jenna, but he doesn't say anything. "Whitford didn't know about you or the hit on you."
