“We’ve come into something valuable,” Cruz says, his voice dropping half an octave, the way it always does when he’s turning on the charm. “Looking to move it quickly.”
Her gaze slides from him to me, lingering on my throat. “And who’s this?”
“She’s with me.”
The ceiling vent hums. A clock ticks somewhere.
“Cruz Calloway with a partner?” Her lips curl up at one corner, teeth flashing white for just a moment. “Fascinating.” The word stretches between us like taffy, sweet on the surface but with something sticky underneath.
I lift my chin and let her look. She won’t be the first—or last—person to underestimate me.
She hums under her breath, her gaze sliding from Cruz’s face to mine like a cold finger tracing my skin. “And does she speak?” A single eyebrow arches as her deep-plum fingernails drum against the desk—once, twice, three times.
I meet her stare, letting one corner of my mouth curl upward, the taste of copper blooming where my teeth press against the inside of my lip.
Cruz’s exhale fills the space between heartbeats. “If you have a question, Portia, just ask it.”
She leans back, leather creaking beneath her weight. Her nails continue their rhythm—tap-tap-tap—against the polished surface. “Why are you showing up unannounced with an unfamiliar side piece?”
Heat crawls up my neck. The word hangs between us, loaded with history I wasn’t part of. I bite the inside of my cheek until it stings, keeping my face carefully blank while something cold settles in my stomach.
He shifts his weight back, crossing one ankle over his knee. The leather creaks beneath him. His shoulders drop a fraction—not relaxation, but the deliberate appearance of it. “Hypothetically,” he says, voice like warm honey poured over gravel, “if someone came into a large quantity of casino chips and needed to move them discreetly.”
Her fingers freeze mid-tap. The air conditioning hums. A clock ticks seven times before she speaks. “No.”
Cruz’s expression doesn’t change. “You didn’t hear the quantity.”
“I didn’t need to.” Her mouth flattens, lipstick catching the light as she presses her lips together. “They’re traceable, volatile, and they’d take too long to move. The risk is too high.” Each word drops like a stone. “And that’s assuming they’d even move.”
Cruz tilts his head. A lock of dark hair falls across his forehead, catching the light. Her gaze flicks to it, then down to his mouth, lingering for two heartbeats before snapping back to his eyes.
“You doubt your skills that much, Portia?”
Her fingernail clicks against the desk—once, twice, three times. “Myskills,” she says, voice dropping half an octave, “are well-earned.”
“Split the take. Multiple buyers.” His voice softens. “Hypothetically, of course.”
Her mouth curves faintly, but there’s no warmth in it. “So instead of burning one client, I burn several?”
The exchange is so tight it barely feels like conversation. And it feels like there are three different conversations happening at the same time.
Cruz shifts, one finger tapping silently against his thigh. “After all this time, you still don’t trust my judgment?”
Portia’s teeth flash, her smile tight as a garrote. “Trust isn’t the issue, Cruz.” Her gaze slides to me, lingering on the pulse point at my throat. “Judgment is.”
My fingers curl against my palm, nails biting half-moons into skin as something hot and sharp rises in my chest.
Cruz lets the insult slide, which is more than I would do. But I’m starting to see that Cruz’s dynamic with this fence is largely different than any of mine. “Ten percent.”
She whistles under her breath, a sharp smile tilting up her perfectly painted lips. “A desperate Cruz Calloway? Consider me shocked.”
“I’ve never been the one counting the days between our meetings, Portia.” His voice drops, smooth as aged whiskey.
Her gaze hardens before it narrows, sweeping over him in a deliberate way. “Always Mommy’s good little soldier, aren’t you? Following her rules and never mixing business and pleasure.” Portia looks at me. “Tell me, silent girl, which are you: business or pleasure?”
Something twists in my stomach, sharp and acidic. My fingernails dig deeper into my palms as I watch her eyes linger on Cruz’s mouth, her tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip. The muscles in my jaw ache from clenching.
“Both.”
