“Layla is your Boss now,” François murmurs, his voice vibrating in the very marrow of my bones. “Her word is the only law you hear. You will protect her. You will serve her. Her every whim is a divine command that you crave to fulfill. Do you understand?”
“We understand,” they drone in unison, their voices flat and hollow.
Stepping back, François watches the darkness recede from his eyes. He gestures grandly toward the new Digger Queen. “They are all yours, Lady-boss. I suggest a trial run.”
Looking from François to Tally and then to me, Layla shrugs. “What the fuck? Okay, I guess.” After a beat, she nods at Danny. “Get on your knees.”
He instantly drops to the concrete. Her face shifts—a mix of awe and burgeoning mischief coloring her features. “Fucking hell, this is golden. I appreciate the parting gift, Frank.”
“Please go away,” scowls François, already opening his book. “My cellmates and I have packing to do.”
Turning to me, Layla’s eyes grow slightly glossy. “Don’t get killed, Barbie. You still owe me a week’s worth of dinner rolls.”
“I’d never renege on a bet,” I say, realizing that if we make it out, I have no idea if I’ll ever see her again. Pulling her into a tight hug, I ignore her stiff, uncomfortable posture. “Stay safe.”
“You too. And look after Tally. Don’t let Frank fuck him up again.”
Glaring at each other across the cell, the Digger and the Elite stay silent. “I’ll do my best, Lay,” I promise.
Clay steps forward. He looks at Tally, his eyes wide and frantic. "Imran. Take him with you."
Setting his jaw, Tally shakes his head. "Clay, real talk—the kid can’t run. He can’t get out of bed.”
"So carry him!" Clay snaps in a tone I’ve never heard from him before. “All he talks about is wishing he could see his brother one last time, or breathe in fresh air. If you’re really getting out… if this prick is as magic as he says… you take him.”
"Fuck," Tally groans, running a hand over his buzzed scalp before glancing at François.
"It’s a mercy, Tally," Clay counters, stepping closer. "Whether you get him home or not, at least he could die free, under the stars.”
Feeling a massive lump form in my throat, I look at François. He is leaning back, watching the “peasants” plead for a dying boy with the bored expression of someone watching a stage play.
“We’ll take him,” I say, my voice firm.
Letting out a long, theatrical sigh, François closes his eyes. "Mon Dieu, the sentimentality of the gutter is truly a leaden weight. I am already burdened with a British eccentric and a dog. Now I am to add a terminal patient to my inventory?"
"What does it matter to you?" I hiss, stepping right up to him. “Tally will carry him. I want this, François. It’s the right thing to do.”
Standing slowly, François treats his uniform jumpsuit as if it were fine silk.
"Fine," he murmurs, his voice dripping with icy condescension. "Take the boy. But understand this—if he puts you in jeopardy, I will drop him where he stands. I am a liberator, not a hospice nurse.D’accord?"
Clay gives a sharp, frantic nod. "Good."
"We leave in two hours," François declares. “I will wait in my cell; the air in here is saturated with more emotions than I can tolerate.”
Sinking next to the cot, my knees feel like water. Tally sits down beside me, his shoulder a heavy, grounding heat against mine. He just stares at the dying boy, his thumb tracing slow circles on the back of my hand.
We both know the truth. Imran cannot be truly saved.
But Sky can.
We’ll find Sky and give her the future she deserves. And Imran? A moment of peace before his passing.
The boy should die looking up at the stars, not a gray, stained ceiling.
Please, Gods, let him have that.
37. FRANCOIS
