And in the center, seated behind a broad desk, is Godfather Kel.
Except… it’s Kel the way a statue is a person.
He’s older than I remember, or maybe just more broken. A life-support mask covers the lower half of his face, tubing running to a discreet unit by his chair. His scales are dull. His eyes, when they lift to meet mine, are sharp but haunted, like something has been living behind them and whispering.
He doesn’t stand.
He doesn’t smile.
He just stares at me like I’m a nightmare that learned to walk.
“You,” he says, voice distorted slightly by the mask.
“Me,” I reply.
For a moment, nobody speaks. The room hums quietly with machinery. Somewhere distant, the casino music thumps like an echo.
Then Kel’s gaze flicks to Jordan.
“And who is this?” he asks.
Jordan straightens, chin lifting the way humans do when they’re trying to look braver than they feel. “Jordan James,” she says. “I’m?—”
“She’s under my protection,” I cut in.
Kel’s eyes narrow. “Protection.”
“Yes,” I say.
“From whom?” Kel asks, voice soft.
“From anyone stupid,” I answer.
Kel’s gaze holds mine. His fingers tap once on the desk—an old habit I recognize, but the rhythm is off. Nervous. Uncertain.
Renn clears his throat behind me. “Godfather, the situation?—”
Kel raises a hand and Renn shuts up instantly.
Then, from the shadowed corner of the room, someone moves.
A figure steps forward with a slow, deliberate ease, like he owns the air.
Fratvoyan. Small body, thick fur, dressed in a suit that probably costs more than most ships. His eyes glitter with intelligence and appetite. Rings gleam on his fingers. He smiles like a man who has never once been told no.
Jordan stiffens beside me. I feel it.
Kel doesn’t look at him, but his shoulders tense.
“Lonari,” the Fratvoyan says, voice smooth, almost cheerful. “Welcome home.”
My stomach tightens in a different way now.
“Glar,” I say, keeping my tone flat.
“The Nine send their regards,” Glar adds, as if he’s bringing flowers to a funeral.
Jordan whispers, barely moving her mouth, “Who is that?”
