Cass.
Her hands grab my shoulders, yanking hard. “Get the fuck off him!”
I let her pull me back, chest heaving, jaw clenched. Noir wipes his face with the back of his hand, still smiling like the bastard he is. He doesn’t say anything else. Just gets up and melts into the shadows like the cockroach he’s always been.
Cass plants herself in front of me, glaring. “What the fuck, D? You’re gonna get caught brawling in a goddamn hallway while the cops are breathing down our necks?”
I don’t answer. Just shove past her. “I need to find Blair.”
“She’s not here.”
I freeze.
“What?”
Cass folds her arms, expression tight. “I saw her leave when shit started popping off. She slipped out the side, got into an Uber. Alone.”
“You’re sure.”
“I watched the car pull away.”
Something snaps in my chest—clean, brutal. She left. Slipped out without a word while I was out here breaking bones for her. And now I don’t know what I feel more—relieved she’s not in the wreckage, or pissed she disappeared on me like I wouldn’t come looking.
I exhale hard, dragging a hand down my face.
“Thanks, Cass.” My voice is low, rough around the edges. “You did good.”
She raises an eyebrow like she wasn’t expecting that.
“Get outta here for the night,” I add. “Go home. Stay out of the rest of this shit. Don’t answer your phone unless it’s me.”
She nods once. “Copy that. Stay the fuck out of trouble, she’s a big girl, she can handle herself.”
“Yeah, I know,”
And just like that, we’re done.
I turn, stalking through the hall, out the side door, and into the street, her silhouette vanishing behind me. The cool breeze blowing in off the ocean hits my skin, but it doesn’t cool the fire crawling through my bloodstream. My mind’s still spinning—her mouth, her laugh, that fucking smile like she knew exactly how deep she cut.
I swing onto my bike, blood drying on my hands, adrenaline still riding shotgun.
Then my phone buzzes.
Unknown number.
I answer without thinking.
“Where the fuck is my product?”
Dante’s voice. Smooth as always. But there’s venom under it tonight—quiet, coiled. The kind of calm that sounds like silk but feels like a garrote tightening around your throat.
Dante doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. He’s not some junk-pushing lowlife; he’s a mid-tier supplier with high-end connections and enough bodies under his belt to keep copsand competitors afraid to speak his name. You fuck up a delivery with a guy like him, you don’t get a second call—you get a toe-tag.
I shift my weight, phone pressed tight to my ear. “Had a situation. Cops rolled in heavy at the event. I was handling it.”
“You were supposed to deliver fourthousandtabs tonight,” he says, too calm. “Your supplier didn’t show. And now I’ve got a problem.”
My stomach drops.
