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Most of it is harmless enough. Surveillance, threats, intimidation, and some disfigurement when a message needs to be sent. Every now and then it gets darker. But I try not to think about that part too much.

My body count sits comfortably in the double digits. I stopped counting years ago. When I was younger, taking a life felt like a big deal. Now it’s just another Tuesday. A job. A line item on a ledger—someone’s got to do it.

But Grace doesn’t need to know any of that.

And then there’s Ray.

Now that things are actually in motion, I’m starting to realize just how badly this could go.

Even if I’m not officially working for Maverick anymore, this isn’t just me secretly fucking his daughter—I’m stealing her.

Maverick is going to lose his mind.

Ray’s a ruthless prick on his best day. I’ve watched him bury men for a lot less than this. So we’ll have to run. Leave town. Disappear for a while until things cool off. They always do eventually. I’ll keep her safe. We’ll find somewhere quiet, somewhere far from here. I’ll figure out the rest once we’re gone.

I should tell her about that.

I just haven’t…yet.

My phone buzzes in my pocket again. I ignore it, but the distraction costs me half a second.

Half a second is enough.

Harlan rips open the desk drawer and comes up with a cheap little revolver.

My hand goes for my waistband automatically.

Levi gets there first.

He strikes Harlan’s wrist sends the gun skittering across the floor. Before the idiot can even blink, Levi grabs the back of his head and slams his face into the desk with a brutal crack. His glasses go flying. Blood spills fast beneath his nose, streaking across wood.

Levi keeps him pinned there with one hand, like this is barely interrupting his afternoon.

“See, now that’s just rude,” he says. “We came in here polite. Used our indoor voices.”

Harlan groans against the desk. Levi glances at the revolver on the floor.

“And then you pull out that little fucking antique like we’re in a Western.”

Levi reaches down with his free hand and unholsters his .45 in one smooth motion. The sound of the safety clicking off cuts through the room. Then he presses the barrel lightly against the side of Harlan’s head.

“You wanna escalate this into a gunfight,” Levi says, almost conversationally, “I should warn you, that little cowboy pistol of yours is gonna have a hard time keeping up.”

Harlan’s breathing turns shallow.

Levi doesn’t even look winded. He finally eases the gun away from Harlan’s head and lets him lift himself off the desk.

I slide the contract in front of him.

Harlan snatches up the pen with shaking fingers and signs fast, blood spotting the page.

“Knew you had a survival instinct in there somewhere,” Levi says.

I peel the paper off the desk. There’s blood on the bottom corner. A little mucus too.

“Lovely,” I mutter.

Levi picks up the revolver from the carpet with obvious disdain, weighing it once in his hand before thumbing the cylinder open. A handful of bullets spill across the floor with soft metallic clicks.