Chapter 357: Layers

CYAN

The smile came back to my lips, widening slow. "There it is. You remember."

Rico took a breath, his shoulders squaring as he tried to pull the boss persona back over his skin... the effort of a man choosing his pride over his judgment because he knew his own people were watching through the glass.

"I don’t have business with him anymore," he said, his voice rising into a manufactured hardness.

"Tell him I’m not interested in whatever he has to say and especially not his..."

He looked me up and down, his eyes lingering on my throat, then my hair, a cruel, deliberate sneer forming on his mouth.

"...not his pet."

I tilted my head, completely unbothered by the weight of the word. "I want information on Marceli Lorenzo. His movements. His meetings. Everything you have."

Rico let out a short, harsh laugh. "You think I have access to a man like Lorenzo? I’m small fish in this district, Cyan. He doesn’t even know my name."

I smiled... bright, pleasant, the exact wrong kind of light. "That wasn’t a question, Rico."

His jaw tightened. He could hear his men shifting in the hallway; he knew what it would cost his reputation if he folded within five minutes of an old cellmate walking through his door.

"Tell Wolfe," Rico said, leaning in until his breath smelled of stale tobacco, "that if he wants something this big, he can come ask me himself. Not send someone who’s still got the whole Block D written all over him. I heard what you were in there. Everyone did. You think because you’re running his errands now, people forget what you used to let men do to you just to feel something?"

The smile didn’t fade... it was simply gone. It went out the way a light goes out when the wire is cut. No flicker. No warning. Just darkness.

The air in the room changed before Rico could finish his next breath.

I moved before the guards outside could have even turned their heads. My left hand came down, my fingers bunching into the fabric of his expensive collar, and I pulled.

The strength wasn’t something his frame could fight. Despite the slender line of my shoulders, the grip was absolute iron.

Rico’s bulk came forward across the mahogany, his papers scattering, his water glass tilting over and spilling across the ledger.

The side door flew open instantly, his men rushing back in with their weapons raised, their eyes wild as they pointed their barrels at the back of my head.

I ignored them. I didn’t even turn to look.

I pulled Rico closer until my mouth was an inch from his ear, my voice dropping into something quiet, soft, and entirely gentle... which was the part that made his breathing stop.

"Since you remember Cell Block D so much Rico." I whispered.

"Then you remember what happened in the laundry room? March, the year I and Cassian got out. The one nobody puts in the logs." I paused, letting his ear feel the coldness of the breath.

"I was there. I was part of it. Which means I know exactly what that place does to people who survive it. And what it does to the ones who don’t."

Rico’s skin went gray under the red lights. A sudden, greasy sweat broke out along his hairline, and his chest hitched against the edge of the desk.

"You think I came here to be insulted by an errand boy?" I asked softly, my fingers tightening in his tie until the silk began to pop.

"I could take your hand right now. Or your knee. Or your men... all three of them... before they even finish pulling their triggers. And I wouldn’t even have to try hard, Rico. You know what I am when the lights go out."

Behind us, the guards’ certainty wavered.

Their guns stayed up, but the barrels were shaking, their eyes darting from my back to their boss’s face, waiting for a signal that wasn’t coming. They knew the stories about the laundry room too.

Rico understood before they did. His throat clicked as he tried to swallow.

"Drop them," he strained out, his voice choked by his own collar. "Drop the guns."

The men hesitated.

"DROP THEM!" he screamed, the volume of a man trying to salvage the two inches of dignity he had left.

The iron lowered. The men stood there, confused, watching their leader being held across his own desk like a child who had reached for the wrong plate.

I released him smoothly, stepping back two paces and smoothing down the lapels of my jacket as if we had just finished a pleasant conversation about the weather.

Rico sank back into his leather chair, his chest heaving, his face completely empty of the hardness he’d spent years building.

I took the chair opposite him, the one meant for clients, and sat down. I lifted my boots, resting my heels directly on the dark wood of his desk, right in the middle of the scattered bills his men hadn’t finished collecting.

"So," I said, my voice bright again, the switch back to casual entirely complete. "Do you know your assignment now?"

Rico looked at his ruined blotter, his hands trembling as he straightened his tie. All the fight had gone out of his skin. "Track him," he said, his voice bare. "Movements. Meetings. Routes. I’ll get whatever the street has."

"He’s paranoid, Rico. Don’t give me the easy version."

"He’s careful," Rico muttered, not looking me in the eye. "Nobody gets close to his main circle."

"Then get creative," I said, leaning back and crossing my ankles. "I don’t care whose hands you have to dirty to get the numbers. Cassian doesn’t care either. He’s already had to bury one Don this year; yours is a much smaller problem by comparison if you become useless to us."

Rico absorbed the name, his fingers tapping against his knee in a slow, defeated rhythm.

"I’ll be in touch," I said, swinging my legs off the desk and standing up. "I expect something on my phone by Friday."

I took two steps toward the door, then stopped, turning back to look at him properly for the first time since I’d pulled him across the wood. My brow furrowed slightly.

"Oh—have you been moisturizing, Rico? Be honest with me. Your skin looks terrible under these lights. Like old lard." I gestured vaguely at the dingy green paneling behind his chair. "And this wallpaper. Genuinely offensive. I’m not even trying to be mean. It’s just bad for the spirit."

Rico just stared at me, the absolute whiplash of the transition showing in the slack line of his mouth.

I walked out, my three men falling in behind me without a single word. The main room of the bar was dead silent as we passed through, every eye following the pink hair until the front door clicked shut behind us.

Outside, the storm had finally arrived. The sky was completely black, the clouds pressing so low they seemed to rest on the rusted roofs of the alleyways. It wasn’t raining yet, but the air felt wet and heavy against my skin, the specific dark that comes before something massive breaks loose.

My phone gave a sharp, double vibration in my pocket.

I pulled it out.

Nick: I’ve seen hostage videos less disturbing than whatever expression you’re making.

I stood in the gray alley, the wind catching the fringe of my hair, and felt the smile return... easy, real, and completely separate from the room I had just left. The numbers and the threats didn’t matter.

I typed back quickly: you replied. I was beginning to worry you’d died of embarrassment.

I hit send and looked up at the sky. The dark clouds from earlier that promised a heavy storm, seemed to disperse, giving way to small patches of the clear blue sky.

"The day’s beautiful, isn’t it?" I said to the guard nearest me, pointing toward the swirling dark above the buildings.

The man looked up, his face blank, then looked back at the street without saying a word. He’d worked for the family long enough to know better than to ask.

"We’re heading to Cassian’s place next," I said, turning toward the car.