Long-press a paragraph to send danmaku
I'm sitting in a diner that smells like burnt coffee and someone's bad life choices. The vinyl booth sticks to my jeans. There's blood under my nails—Dad's blood—and I can't stop looking at it.
Locke Gates is across from me, spinning a sugar packet between his fingers like he's got all the time in the world. He doesn't look like a mob bastard. He looks like someone who'd sell you a mortgage and fuck your wife in the same afternoon. Clean jaw. Dark suit. Eyes that don't blink enough.
"You're not eating," he says.
There's a plate of fries in front of me. I didn't order them. He did. Like he knew I'd show up, knew I'd sit down, knew I'd have nowhere else to go.
"Not hungry."
"You will be." He taps the table twice. The waitress appears, refills his coffee, doesn't look at me. She's got a tattoo on her wrist—an Iron cross. One of theirs. This whole place is probably his.
I should leave. Walk out. Call Devin, let the Bureau scoop me up, put me in a safe house with beige walls and a lock that's supposed to mean something.
But Dad's last word was *go*. And the man who shot him is still out there. And the witness protection we've been hiding under for twelve years just evaporated the second that bullet went through Dad's chest.
"You've got about six hours before Vito's people figure out you're not at your apartment," Locke says. He's not looking at me. He's looking at his phone, scrolling through something, bored. "After that, every corner store camera, every traffic light, every doorbell in the city becomes a problem. They'll find you. And when they do, they won't make it quick."
"Why do you care?"
Now he looks up. "I don't."
"Then why am I here?"
"Because you're useful." He sets his phone down, folds his hands on the table. His knuckles are clean. No scars. No rings. Not yet. "Vito wants you dead because your father testified against his uncle fifteen years ago. He wants me dead because I'm in his way. You're leverage. I need leverage."
"So you want to use me."
"I want to keep you breathing. If that feels like being used, you're welcome to leave."
I don't move.
He smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes. "Smart girl."
"What's the deal?"
"Three months. You're my fiancée. You show up where I tell you, smile when I tell you, and don't ask questions. At the end of three months, I take over the family. You disappear. New name, new city, new life. Irongate money. Enough to make sure Vito never finds you."
"And if I say no?"
"Then you walk out that door, and I forget I ever met you." He leans back, drapes one arm over the booth. "But you won't make it to morning."
My hands are shaking. I press them flat on the table. "Why me? You could pick anyone."
"Because Vito already wants you dead. That makes you visible. And visibility is useful when you're trying to prove you're not hiding." He tilts his head. "Also, your father fucked over the family. You standing next to me sends a message. The past is dead. The family moves forward."
"Under you."
"Under me."
I look at the fries. Cold now. Grease pooling on the plate. "Three months."
"Three months."
"And then I'm gone."
"Then you're gone."
He reaches into his jacket, pulls out a small black box. Slides it across the table. It stops right in front of my coffee mug.
I don't touch it.
"Open it," he says.
I flip the lid. Inside is a ring. Not huge. Not tacky. A single diamond, square cut, set in platinum. The kind of ring that says *money* without screaming it. The kind of ring that makes people shut up and sit down.
"I'm not wearing that."
"You are."
"I didn't agree yet."
"You will."
I snap the box closed, shove it back toward him. "You're a real piece of shit, you know that?"
"Yeah." He picks up the box, opens it again, takes the ring out. "Give me your hand."
"No."
"Ivy." His voice drops. Not loud. Quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your spine go cold. "Give me your hand."
I don't know why I do it. Maybe because I'm tired. Maybe because he's right and I've got nowhere else to go. Maybe because some part of me wants to see what happens when you make a deal with the devil and he actually keeps his word.
I put my hand on the table.
He takes it. His fingers are warm. Steady. He slides the ring onto my fourth finger, left hand, and it fits perfectly.
"How did you—"
"I know a lot of things about you, Ivy Cash." He lets go of my hand but doesn't look away. "I know you take your coffee black. I know you failed your driver's test twice. I know you've been fucking a fed named Devin Hart for eight months and he still doesn't know your real last name."
My stomach drops. "You've been watching me."
"I've been *waiting* for you." He picks up his coffee, takes a sip, sets it down. "Your father was supposed to die five years ago. Someone kept him alive. I want to know who. And I want to know why."
"My father—" My voice cracks. I stop. Breathe. Try again. "My father didn't do anything wrong. He testified because it was the right thing to do."
"Your father testified because he got caught skimming money from the Irongate family trucking operation and flipped to save his own ass." Locke's voice is flat. No emotion. Just facts. "He wasn't a hero. He was a thief. And someone in my family has been keeping him alive as insurance. I'm going to find out who. And when I do, I'm going to put a bullet in their head."
I can't breathe. The diner is too hot. The lights are too bright. The smell of burnt coffee is choking me.
"You're lying."
"I don't lie. I don't need to." He reaches across the table, taps the ring on my finger. "You're mine now. That means I protect you. That also means you don't get to run. You don't get to hide. And you sure as hell don't get to call your fed boyfriend and tell him where you are."
"I wasn't going to—"
His phone buzzes. He glances at it, frowns, then turns the screen toward me.
It's a photo. Grainy, taken from a distance. A man in a hospital bed. Wires and tubes. His face is half-covered by a breathing mask.
But I know that face.
It's Dad.
"That was taken forty minutes ago," Locke says. "St. Mercy Hospital, fourth floor, ICU. He's alive. Barely. And he's got a visitor."
He swipes to the next photo. A man standing next to the bed. Dark coat. Silver hair. I don't recognize him.
"Who is that?"
"That's the question." Locke pockets his phone, stands up, drops two twenties on the table. "Let's go find out."
"Wait—" I grab his wrist. He stops. Looks down at my hand on his arm, then up at my face. "If my father's alive, why did you tell me he was going to die?"
"Because I thought he was." He pulls his arm free, buttons his jacket. "Someone wants him alive. That means someone's playing a game. And you and I are going to find out who."
He walks toward the door. I sit there, staring at the ring on my finger. It catches the light. Cold and sharp and permanent.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out. Unknown number. The text is two words:
*He's listening.*
I look up. Locke is holding the door open, waiting. His face gives nothing away.
I stand up. Slide my phone into my pocket. Follow him out into the night.
The ring is too tight. I can't get it off.