She realized what she'd done.
Virginia.
Not Lady of Rage. Not Rage. Not some street name she'd heard in passing.
Virginia.
That stuck out.
I raised an eyebrow. "How do you know Virginia?"
She dropped her head. Realizing her mistake. Fear bled through her pores enough for me to taste it in the air for the first time since I'd taken her.
Not the fear of death.
The fear of something worse.
"Everybody knows her," she said, dropping the chopsticks. They clattered against the coffee table.
I rebutted. "Everybody knows Lady of Rage in Florida. They know Virginia up north. DMV area. New York." I held the phone up. "You want to talk? Or you want me to send the pic?"
Her eyes narrowed.
She didn't answer.
Didn't blink.
Just sat there staring at the food like it had suddenly turned to ash on her plate.
I waited.
The clock on the wall ticked.
Nothing.
"You don't want to talk? That's fine." I pulled out my phone, held it up. "I'll just send the pic."
"No." Her voice was sharp. "I'll talk."
"Why don't you want me to send the pic?"
"Because she'll be the reason I get sent back there." A pause. "That would be worse than death."
Her voice was quiet now. Barely above a whisper.
I leaned back in my chair, studying her. The blanket had slipped off one shoulder. She didn't pull it back up.
"Who are you?" I asked again.
She looked down at her hands. Her shoulders slumped. For the first time, she looked small. Not fragile—Jamie would never be fragile—but smaller.
"I'm Demetrius Lucas's daughter," she said finally.
"Fuck me."
Demetrius Lucas was Lady of Rage's biggest competitor. A man who was as ruthless as he was powerful. He ran everything north of Virginia. Baltimore. Philly. Parts of New York.
And this woman—thisgirl—was his daughter.
