“Maybe it wasn’t the job then,” she says, her gaze sliding from Bishop to me like a searchlight. “But the people.”
“Are you accusing us of something,Mom?” I ask.
Her lips purse at the maternal moniker, the skin around them blanching white for a second. Her eyes narrow to slits, irises nearly disappearing.
“Maybe my boys got sloppy? Maybe they let themselves get distracted by a nice ass? Maybe your little girlfriend pulled a job out from underneath you.”
The silence after that is thin enough to tear.
“Careful now, Coco.” I don’t raise my voice above a murmur.
The sliding door opens behind us, and Cruz steps out.
“Bellamy was in the truck. She could’ve fuckingdiedthe way shit went down today.”
Coco’s attention shifts to him, irritation flashing before she smooths it over again. “So Bishop said.”
Cruz’s voice drops lower, each word measured like he’s counting bullets. “You think she set up a job she was sitting in?”
Coco’s lips curl back, exposing the sharp edge of one canine. “I told you what happens when you bring in outsiders.”
There it is. that old pressure point she keeps her thumb pressed against whenever she needs the room to tilt back toward her. Family. Blood. Loyalty. The implication always sitting there underneath her words like a blade tucked in a sleeve.
Cruz doesn’t blink. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one that matters.” Coco studies him for a long moment. Then she leans back into her chair, picking up her glass again like she’s already done with the conversation. “Don’t forget who taught you everything you know. I’ll talk to my contact, see if anything shifted on their end.”
Bishop’s jaw tightens, a muscle flickering beneath the stubble. His exhale fogs the night air between them. “Do that.”
Coco’s gaze slides to me, her pupils contracting to pinpoints under the patio light. She rises, chair legs scraping concrete. “You boys should sleep,” she adds, voice honeyed but hollow. “Those circles under your eyes are aging you.”
The sliding door whispers shut behind her. Chlorine and silence hang heavy in the air.
I stare at the house, at the silhouette moving behind half-drawn blinds, then back at Bishop. “The kid. Can he track the chips that were taken?”
Bishop drags a hand down his face again, slower this time. “Probably.”
“Then fuck it. We track ‘em ourselves and leave bodies as thank-you notes.”
“Jesus, Rafe.” Bishop exhales, long and controlled. “Let’s grab a few hours of sleep, and we’ll regroup in the morning.”
The words land like a command, but neither Cruz or I argue this time.
Cruz watches me for half a second longer, then gives the smallest shake of his head and turns toward the house.
Bishop doesn’t follow him immediately. He stays where he is, staring out into the yard like if he looks hard enough at the dark water in the pool, it’ll offer him answers.
“What do you think happened? What went wrong today?” His words are low.
“I don’t know, man. But we’ll figure out who’s behind it. And I’ll get restitution.”
He glances at me. “Don’t stay up all night. I need you fresh tomorrow.”
I don’t say anything, and he turns and heads inside.
I sink into the lounger. Above me, stars blur into pinpricks of light. One by one, they reshape themselves into amber-flecked irises watching me through dark lashes. My chest expands, then empties as twilight bleeds into the horizon.
SEVEN
