I don’t reach for my weapon this time. I reach for my wallet. I pull out a thick wad of hundreds and step into his space, forcing his gaze up to mine.
“You never saw me,” I murmur, low and final, pressing the cash into his hands.
He doesn’t argue. His fingers close around the money, trembling so hard it rattles. Seconds later, he’s gone, running down the alley like the devil himself is on his heels.
I move back to my truck slowly, unhurried, listening as the fire alarm erupts behind me. The sound slices through the air, sharp and panicked, and almost immediately the café dissolves into chaos. I slide into the driver’s seat and watch it all unfold from the shadows.
My eyes find her instantly. They always do.
She turns toward the kitchen, curiosity etched across her face, brows knitting together as staff rush past her. Voices rise. Hands gesture. Then the evacuation begins. Chairs scrape. Doors swing open. And she’s moving, flowing with the crowd, closer and closer to me with every step.
She’s so close now. Close enough to touch. Close enough to feel.
And yet she can’t see me.
The distant wail of fire engines cuts through the noise, growing louder by the second. People scatter away from the café, urgency bleeding into every movement. I stay where I am. I need this moment. I need to see it end properly.
He reaches for her.
Hishand lands on her shoulder, too familiar, too possessive for my liking. His mouth moves, saying something I can’t hear. My jaw tightens, teeth grinding as I watch her reaction, dissecting every flicker of emotion on her face.
She nods.
Then she turns away from him and walks back toward the hospital.
Relief coils dark and heavy in my chest. He doesn’t follow. Instead, he lingers, stepping toward the frantic staff, saying something, offering help, no doubt. Playing the hero.
As she walks away, she glances back at the café. Just once. There’s sadness in her eyes, fleeting but unmistakable, and it tightens something brutal in my chest. I don’t like that look on her. I don’t like knowing I put it there, even if it was necessary.
I pull my phone from my pocket and fire off a message to Jaxon.
Khai:
Make a sizable donation to Café on 9.
No explanation. None needed.
Jaxon:
Will do.
Do I even want to know?
I ignore that too.
That’s when I notice the missed calls. Fifteen of them. All from the same number. My father.
Fuck.
I type out a reply with my jaw clenched.
Khai:
On my way.
I don’t wait for his response. I start the engine, the low rumble grounding me, and pull away from the curb. The café fades into my rearview mirror, the chaos behind it settling into silence.
Some debts get paid in money. Others demand blood, or obedience.
