"Why you always in these fucking suits?"
Rage's voice cut through the silence, her gaze raking over me like she was lining up a shot.
I adjusted my cuffs, the fabric stiff against my wrists.
"Looks like you've got this handled. Why call me at three in the morning?"
My voice was rough from lack of sleep.
She smirked, teeth flashing in the dim light. She was a striking woman—smooth dark skin, sharp features, a face that belonged on a magazine cover, not in the underworld.
"Get a nine-to-five if you want steady hours."
Before I could retort, the heavy thud of boots echoed behind us.
A group of men emerged from the shadows.
Faces like carved stone.
Eyes colder than the steel they carried.
Their leader stood out immediately. His posture was rigid, a scar splitting his cheek like a lightning bolt. His hand rested casually near his waistband, fingers brushing the grip of a gun.
I didn't recognize them.
That set my teeth on edge.
I knew every major player in Tampa.
Out-of-towners were trouble.
Reckless.
Unpredictable.
This was a gamble, even for Rage.
"You got my money?"
His voice was rough, gravel grinding against steel. A Southern twang. Texas or Louisiana.
Lady of Rage lifted a black briefcase.
"You got the guns?"
One of his men wheeled forward a crate and pried it open with a crowbar. Polished metal glinted beneath the flickering lights.
My eyes stayed locked on the leader, watching for tells.
The air was too still.
Too heavy.
The briefcase changed hands.
The crate rolled toward Rage's crew.
Then—
