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Something soft passes over the woman’s expression. Then it is gone.

“He came into my establishment,” she says, voice low and lethal. “He looked upon women under my protection and decided they were nothing more than meat. He made a spectacle of them. He made sport of their terror.”

Jack begins to strain against the ropes, but no one looks at him.

Edward does not blink. “And we have debts to pay.”

Her eyes shift to him and narrow. “Debts?”

Edward’s expression closes.

Interesting.

“We are not here because we enjoy playing butcher for sport,” I say. “Well, not entirely.”

Edward shoots me a warning look. I ignore it.

“We have a master who requires proof. Hands, usually. Occasionally teeth. He is sentimental in strange ways.”

The Widow’s mouth curls with disgust. “A master?”

“Employer,” Edward corrects sharply.

The Slaying Sickle gives a humorless laugh. “That sounded like a lie even from over here, mate.”

Edward turns on him. “You broke into our shop through a window. I would advise against commenting on my honesty.”

“I was pursuing justice,” The Slaying Sickle states, gesturing with his hands.

“You were trespassing,” I murmur.

“I was committed,” he retorts.

“You were drunk,” I volley back.

“Barely,” The Slaying Sickle replies.

The Widow raises the pistol and the argument dies.

“Enough.” Her statement cracks through the room.

Not shouted. Not pleaded. Commanded.

Every eye turns to her. She walks closer to the table, the lace of her black gown whispering against the floor. Her cane taps once against the tile.

Click.

Jack’s breathing quickens.

Good.

At least one person in this room understands the proper response to her. The Widow stops beside him and looks down.

“You do not get to beg,” she says. “Not after they begged. Not after they cried. Not after they bled while you decided their lives were worth less than your amusement.”

Jack’s lips move around the gag.

The Widow leans closer, “speak one word, and I will remove your tongue before these gentlemen can argue over it.”