I hit him.
Once.
His head snaps back.
Twice.
His blood sprays across white roses.
Vice catches my arm before the third. “He’s useful.”
“He’s breathing. That’s useful enough.”
“Shady.”
Lady’s voice stops me.
Not loud.
Not pleading.
Just my name.
I release Boca.
He drops like trash.
Lady is standing now, one hand braced on Diablo’s arm, the other pressed to her ribs. She looks small for the first time since I have known her, and I hate Boca for making me see it. I hate myself more because the thing in her eyes didn’t come from his gun.
It came from my silence.
“We need to go,” Diablo says.
I nod, jaw locked so tight my teeth ache.
Outside, Miami heat hits like a slap. The cold storage clings to my clothes, but the sun burns it off fast. Sirens wail somewhere far enough to be a problem later. The refrigerated trailer is gone. Smoke stains the rail-side gate. Toro is gone with it.
For now.
I carry Lady again only because her legs betray her halfway across the dock. She lets me until we reach the bikes and the black SUV Alpha sent around with Gville. Then her palm lands flat against my chest.
“Put me down.”
This time, I do.
Her boots hit the pavement, and she sways. I reach for her. She steps back.
Not far.
Far enough.
That space opens between us like a grave.
“Lady.”
She looks at me, then past me at the warehouse, the roses, the blood, the smoke. Then back at me.
Her eyes are wet.