"Yes," Gabe confirms quietly. "He's trying to get to you through us."
I close my eyes for a brief moment. The Collector doesn't deal in territory. Or money. Or even revenge. He deals in people.
"I want everything," I command. "Every whisper. Every offer. Every name he's circling."
"You'll have it," Gabe replies. Then, after a beat, "This changes things."
"Yes," I agree. "It does."
I end the call and remain where I am, the desert air cool against my skin. Behind me is the life I fought for. Ahead of me is a shadow that understands exactly where to press.
El Recaudador thinks he's patient. He thinks he can wait. I smile to myself, slow and dangerous. He's wrong. Because the moment he reached for what's mine, he stopped being a rumor. And the moment he made Gabe his next move, he declared himself my enemy. The city flickers below me, bright and alive. Inside, my family sleeps. Somewhere out there, the Collector waits and is counting debts. He'll learn soon enough. I don't owe. I collect.
The phone vibrates again. Not Gabe this time. Enzo.
"Is it done?"
"It's done," he confirms.
Two words. Efficient. Final. I lean one forearm against the balcony railing, eyes still on the Strip. "How bad?"
A pause. Not hesitation. Measurement. "Every major bone," Enzo replies. "Arms. Legs. Ribs. Hands. Our men were… thorough." Good. A satisfied grin spreads over my face. "He's alive. Doctors say he'll recover. Eventually."
Eventually. I picture Preston Kingsley in a hospital bed. Tubes in his throat. Casts encasing limbs that once pointed at people and called it power. The same sterile lighting. The same helplessness I had.
"Make sure the records say mugging," I tell him.
"They do."
"And the guards?"
"Bought."
Enzo doesn't do anything by halves. I close my eyes briefly. Ten years ago, I woke up in a bed with shattered bones and no memory of impact, only the certainty that someone wanted me erased. I rebuilt myself piece by piece. Metal and fury. I learned how long bones take to heal. How many weeks before you can stand. How many months before pain stops being blinding and becomes… companionable. Kingsley will learn that, too.
"Jenna doesn't know," Enzo guesses quietly.
"She doesn't need to," I confirm.
A beat. I told her she could choose what happens to him, but incarceration is not consequence, it's inconvenience. And not nearly enough for what he'd done to me. To her. To our son. To what he would have done to her and our son. She might forgive. I won't.
Silence stretches. Enzo understands me better than most.
"As soon as he heals," I continue, voice calm as the desert night, "it happens again."
No emotion. No heat. Just math.
"Yes, boss," Enzo confirms.
"And again. For as long as I decide."
An eye for an eye would've been merciful. Kingsley didn't just try to kill me. He stole ten years. He fractured lives. He set wars in motion. He let Jenna believe I abandoned her. He let my son grow up without knowing my name. Pain is the only language men like him understand. I straighten, looking out over my city. "He'll live. But he won't ever walk without remembering me."
Enzo exhales slowly. Approval, not hesitation.
I remain on the balcony long after. Jenna shifts in her sleep inside. A soft sound. A dream. She asked me to let her choose, and she did. I only added a little something extra. There are parts of war she doesn't need to carry. Like she won't ever know that it was me who ordered Whitford's accident. She has enough on her plate.
Soon we're going to tell Amauri more. Esther agreed it's time. The truth is no longer a weapon; it's an inheritance. He needs to know about the responsibility that comes from being my son. What it means to carry my name. I don't fear that conversation. I fear the one after.
