“The kind of soft targetyoutried to eliminate,” I say quietly.
His eyes flare. “Don’t?—”
“I didn’t come here for a fight,” I cut in, then lower my voice so the staff can pretend they didn’t hear. “But you’re not going to speak about her like she’s cargo.”
Fyr’s jaw tightens. Pain flashes across his face, quick and involuntary. He breathes through it, then spits, “You’re thinking with your?—”
I lean in. My voice drops into something dangerous and intimate.
“I’m thinking with my head,” I say. “And with the part of me that understandstiming.Jordan is not a pet. She’s not a trophy. She is leverage, and she is truth, and she is the only reason we’re not blind right now.”
He glares at me like he wants to rip my throat out, even half-broken.
“You’re protecting her in front of captains,” he says. “That’s what I heard.”
“I am,” I say. “Because if they think she’s disposable, they’ll offer her up to buy themselves safety. And if they do that, they deserve what comes next.”
Fyr’s nostrils flare. “You’re betting the syndicate on her.”
“No,” I say. “I’m betting the syndicate onme.Jordan is just the reminder that we don’t get to pretend we’re separate from the larger game anymore.”
He stares at me. For a moment, behind the anger, something else flickers—fear. Not for himself. For what this means.
Then he says, quieter, “You trust her.”
I don’t answer immediately. I can still feel her presence in my mind like a static charge. Her stubbornness. Her eyes when sherealizes institutions won’t save her. The way she looks at me like I’m a monster—and still doesn’t lie.
“I trust that she wants to live,” I say. “And I trust that she hates being used. Same as me.”
Fyr snorts. “Romantic.”
I straighten. “Rest. Heal. And if you want to challenge my priorities, do it when you can stand without bleeding.”
His eyes narrow. “This isn’t over.”
“No,” I agree. “It isn’t.”
I turn to leave.
And I make sure the lieutenants outside the door hear me say, casually, “Jordan stays under my protection. Anyone who forgets that will lose something they like.”
They go very still.
Good.
Message delivered.
Night falls like a guillotine.
The Nun’s lights glitter. The casino floors hum. People laugh like the universe isn’t on fire. That’s what places like this are for—pretending.
I’m in the back offices when the call comes.
A warehouse on the east docks. One of ours. Quiet storage. Longtime loyalist running it—old name, old blood. The kind of man who never asked for more than he was owed.
My comm buzzes twice, urgent.
I answer, and the first thing I hear is breathing—ragged, wet.
