Maggie glances between my face and Knox's and sniffs. "Mm-hmm. You'll both live. Eat. Court tomorrow. I need you upright, not wobbling."
Court. The word drops into my stomach even as James sets a bowl of chili in front of me, and the smell makes it growl.
"Thank you," I murmur.
"Try it," James says. "Then you can decide if my chili gets to stay on the menu." I take a careful bite. Heat and spice spread over my tongue.
The room hums around me. Pool balls crack. The jukebox rolls to a new song. Malachi's low rumble carries from the far corner,and Nash answers with a shorter, sharper sound. I keep waiting for the noise to become pressure, the way rooms always do. It doesn't. Maybe I'm too tired to flinch.
"You have questions," Knox says quietly beside me.
I look at him over my spoon. "You're the vice president."
"Yeah."
"What does that actually mean?"
"I run security and operations. Logistics, some money, personnel. Malachi makes the big calls. I make sure those calls land the way they're supposed to. If trouble comes, I intercept first."
My father's face flashes. His men in that Chicago lot. "You've seen that kind of trouble before," I say.
"Too many times," he answers.
"And you still…"
"Brought you here?" His gaze never wavers. "Yeah."
Maggie drops a piece of bread on my plate. "Less staring at each other, more chewing," she says in a brisk voice. "You two can brood about fate and responsibility later."
I obey because saying no to her feels like challenging gravity. Somewhere under the noise my brain keeps counting routes and exits. How many steps to each door, which hallways lead where.
James appears at my elbow a few minutes later. "Need a breather?" he asks quietly.
I glance up. The room tilts just enough to answer for him. "Yeah," I say.
He nods toward the side door. "Come on."
Under the table, Knox's hand slides over my thigh. I tap his fingers, then push my chair out and follow James along the wall. We step into the slender space between the clubhouse and the garage. The sound drops several decibels. The air smells of asphalt, hot metal, and James's chili. A fan hums overhead.
"You okay?" he asks after a beat, leaning against the brick.
"I can't tell," I say honestly.
"Fair." He tucks his hands into his pockets, watching the street beyond the alley mouth. "You know hospitals," he continues. "Busy halls, bad news, people hanging on by fingernails."
"Yeah."
"This house works the same way sometimes. Different uniforms. Different weapons. Same idea. You will see shouting, cussing, nights where tempers bleed all over the floor." He pauses. "You will also see people show up with casseroles when someone loses a dog." A shaky half-laugh escapes that surprises us both. "You're braced," he adds. "Like a hit's coming." He pauses. "Give it a few days. See what happens."
My throat aches. "I want this," I admit. "And that scares me more than anything my father ever did."
"Means you've got skin in it. That's not the worst place to be," he says.
I stare at a crack in the pavement. "I’ve already lost so much."
"You're still standing," he says. "That counts."
Through the open side door, I see East in the garage, arguing with someone over an invoice, hands flying theatrically. A younger kid leans against a bike, laughing so hard they have to wipe tears off their cheeks. I watch them and my throat tightens until I can't swallow. That kid's laugh, those greasy hands, the easy weight of belonging I can see from here.
