The body was still warm when Milo asked if they should burn the clothes or bag them.

Darius Cole didn’t answer right away. He was crouched by the wall, wiping a splatter of blood off the cracked baseboard with bleach and a rag. The kid’s body lay slumped across the carpet, mouth half open, legs twitching now and then like death couldn’t quite finish its job. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Skinny. Acne. Dreadlocks.

Another damn baby.

“Bag ’em,” D muttered finally. His voice was low, gravel-smoothed, like it hadn’t been used much today. “Fire’s messy. Smoke’s a beacon.”

Milo nodded, hands shaky as he fumbled with the gloves. The kid had a little blood on his hoodie and a lot more in his hair. The bullet hadn’t been clean. They never were. Vinnie liked to say, “Make it quick.” But death didn’t do favors for messy people.

D stood up slowly, stretching the stiffness from his back. The movement pulled his coat open, flashing the matte black pistol holstered tight against his hip — a silent warning. His body moved with heavy, deliberate grace, every shift of muscle purposeful, predatory. He was 30, tall, built like a man who fought for a living and won most of the time — long legs, broad chest, arms thick with strength that didn’t need to be shown off.

His skin was a deep, flawless brown, smooth as burnished wood and gleaming faintly under the flickering ceiling light. Even now, surrounded by blood and death, he looked devastating — dark hair shaved close to his scalp, a trimmed beard hugging a sharp jaw, full lips parted just enough to flash perfect white teeth. His eyes were the kind that made people shut up — dark, intense, and unreadable. He had that kind of face, that kind of body — where everything about him said danger, and still, you’d want to get closer.

Milo looked at him like he was carved from stone. Because he kind of was. “Who was he?” Milo asked, like it mattered now.

D’s eyes lingered on the body. One more stupid kid in a long line of them. But he didn’t say that.

He just said, “Doesn’t matter now.”

But it did. That was the problem.

The kid’s name was Jacari. D had taken his phone before Milo got there and seen the texts. One from a girl named Skye begging him not to go. Another from a blocked number saying don’t forget the cash. D could still hear the desperation in that first text, still feel the ghost of himself in the kid’s place — young, broke, and trying to get ahead in a game that didn’t love you back.

He looked at Jacari’s sneakers. New. Knockoffs, but spotless. Probably his best pair. D hated that Vinnie kept making him do this — sending him after kids who thought they had no other way to make it. Kids who were too stupid or too stubborn to see the trap until they were already inside it.

Milo was dragging the plastic bag across the floor now, trying to act like this was routine. Like he didn’t want to puke. He was 24 and still thought there was some kind of honor in this life. Still thought Vinnie was just a businessman, and they were “cleaning up the streets.”

“You good?” Milo asked, watching D from the corner of his eye.

D rubbed a hand down his jaw, rough with stubble. “Yeah. You?”

“Yeah,” Milo lied, voice tight. “Just… he looked young.”

“They always do,” D said.

He walked to the kitchen and dumped the rag into a plastic bin. The bleach smell burned his nose. His boots were damp with blood.

He paused by the cracked window. Outside, the Cleveland wind blew garbage down the alley like it had somewhere to be. The city was gray and brittle today, sky low, like it wanted to crush the buildings flat.

D stared out at it, his jaw tight.

He used to be one of those kids, like Jacari. Running corners, selling dime bags, always waiting for the day someone decided he was too much of a problem to keep breathing. What saved him wasn’t luck. It was Vinnie. Vinnie had taken him in, given him a gun, said “You want money? Respect? I’ll teach you.”

D had taken the deal. Learned fast. Learned quiet. And for a while, he’d been proud of the work — keeping his head down, moving like a ghost, never sloppy, never loud.

But lately?

Lately the jobs felt worse. Sloppier. Crueler. Vinnie sent him after more kids than grown men these days. Said it was about loyalty, but it felt like thinning the herd. Anyone too dumb or too broke to stay in line got erased.

Milo grunted, struggling to get the bag sealed. D moved to help, holding it steady while Milo wrapped the tape.

“You’ll get better at this,” D said quietly.

Milo didn’t reply.

They hauled the bag out the back, dumped it into the trunk of a stolen Civic that would be torched by morning. The neighborhood was dead quiet, boarded windows watching like tired eyes. No one saw them. Or if they did, they knew better than to say so.

Back inside, D washed his hands in the bathroom sink. The mirror was cracked down the middle. His reflection looked like it had been split in half.

“You hungry?” Milo asked, leaning in the doorway, trying to sound casual.

D dried his hands, knuckles raw, and nodded once.

They stepped out into the cold and the neighborhood exhaled around them as they began to walk, the cracked sidewalks below lined with cigarette butts and the ghosts of broken promises. Worn-out duplexes packed the street, their vinyl siding peeling like sunburned skin. A busted bike frame lay half-buried in dead leaves beside an overflowing trash bin. Somewhere, a dog barked behind a chain-link fence. Somewhere else, a woman screamed at no one.

This was Cleveland—not the skyline on postcards, but the hollowed-out bones beneath it. The kind of place where dreams didn’t die loud, just quietly starved.

The air tasted like road salt and old oil, with a trace of something sweeter—fried dough from a corner stand still open, defiant. Streetlights buzzed above them, flickering like they couldn't quite stay alive either. D moved with quiet power, the kind of grace that came from surviving, not thriving.

They reached the diner, one of those places with windows fogged from years of grease and sorrow. They slid into cracked vinyl seats at the counter. The waitress didn’t look up from her crossword, didn’t need to. She dropped off two mugs of scorched coffee and shuffled away in her orthopedic shoes.

D stared into his cup. His reflection shimmered in the bitter surface—handsome, hard, tired. He looked like the kind of man no one could shake. But under the carved cheekbones and cool stare was a truth that wouldn’t let go.

He was tired of watching boys die. Tired of cleaning it up. Tired of pretending Vinnie wasn’t just another butcher with money.

He looked at Milo, who was scrolling his phone, fidgeting like a kid who just wanted praise. His face was boyish, soft around the edges, with eyes that hadn’t yet learned to stay cold.

“You’re not ready,” D said.

Milo glanced up, blinking. “What?”

“You’re not ready for this life.”

Milo scoffed. “I’m here, ain’t I?”

“For now,” D said. He drank the rest of his coffee and stood. “Let’s go.”

And he meant go. Before this place swallowed Milo too. Before he had to kill another version of himself.

Before he had to watch another kid’s story end in a trash bag.

Thirty minutes later, D and Milo pulled up outside Vinnie’s place.

The strip club off East 55^th bled pink neon onto the wet brick outside, a busted security light stuttering overhead like it was trying to warn someone. It squatted at the end of the block like something half-abandoned, one brilliant sign still flickering—Velvet Room—but the “V” was long dead. A drunk banged on the locked front door, not realizing it was only open to people who knew the side entrance and the right knock.

D and Milo slipped through the metal door off the alley, past a hallway that reeked of mop water and sour beer, and into the low, red haze of the club proper. The thud of bass vibrated through the floor like a second heartbeat, and the girls barely looked up from their poles. Wednesday crowd. Sparse and sad. A pair of men hunched over their drinks at the bar, eyes empty.

D moved through it with that quiet, heavy grace he had while Milo ghosted a step behind, hoodie up, hands jammed in the pockets like they might rattle if he let them out.

They slipped past the bouncer without a word and moved through the haze of lights and noise to the back—through the beaded curtain, into the shadows where real power lounged in dim silence.

Vinnie Mancuso sat at the high table in his usual spot. Crimson shirt, black slacks, rings on both hands, the smell of cologne fighting with the nicotine. His gut pressed against the edge of the table as he swirled bourbon in a heavy glass, eyes half-lidded like he was already somewhere else. A man with too much power and not enough patience.

Carmine, Vinnie’s younger cousin, sat beside him, hunched forward, elbows on knees, a smug little sneer tugging at his mouth. He looked like someone who got hit a lot in high school and had been making up for it ever since. Hair slicked back tight, gold chain catching the light, shiny loafers tapping against the floor like a kid who’d been waiting for this moment all day.

“About time,” Carmine said at once, making no room, eyes grazing D like he was bringing dirt in with his boots. “You drip bleach all the way here?”

D didn’t blink. “You wanna sniff me, buy me dinner.”

Milo bit the inside of his cheek to kill a grin. Carmine’s eyes went colder.

Vinnie’s ring tapped once. “Clean?”

“Containable,” D said.

“Witnesses?” Carmine, quick, eager.

“No.”

Carmine leaned forward, that little cousin sneer loaded. “Kid beg?”

D looked at him the way you look at a buzzing light you plan to replace. “He died.”

Vinnie’s mouth twitched—amused, bored, both. “Milo,” he said without looking away from D, “go get yourself a drink. The grown-ups are talking.”

Milo hesitated, then slid off to the bar, grateful and wounded in equal measure.

Vinnie tipped ash into a crystal tray. “You know Carmine don’t trust you.”

“Carmine don’t trust forks,” D said.

Carmine sat up. “I don’t trust hired help who think they’re family.”

And there it was. D felt it land the way a small rock lands in a boot—not fatal, but made to rub. Thirteen years in this room and he still didn’t get the chair, the pour, the joke. He got the jobs. He got to be useful. He got to be the only Black face in a white family that liked their sins exported and their blood imported. Sunday dinners and christenings were for “real cousins.” Back rooms and bleach were for D.

He’d been brought in at seventeen. A kid, angry and raw. Uncle Leon had seen something in him—a dangerous kind of promise. He introduced D to Vinnie like he was handing over a weapon.

But D had respected Leon—more than he ever had Vinnie. He liked the man. Trusted him. Leon had a kind of quiet gravity, sharp but calm, never had to raise his voice to make a room shut up. And in a world full of users, Leon had trusted him back. That mattered.

Leon had retired not long after, moved to South Carolina. Opened a bait shop, kept a quiet side business moving information through dead drops. A place D could trust—until a year ago, when Leon vanished. Poof. No body. No explanation. Just gone.

Now, the low-country number D used to have for Leon just rang into weather. The safehouse was dead. The drop spot cold. He hadn’t let himself think about it in months—locked that thought in a box in his head next to the other one: the physical box, the ledger and flash drives Leon had told him to hold “for insurance” down there by the marsh. He hadn’t needed it. Yet.

Since then, D had been stuck. Shackled to Cleveland. Shackled to Vinnie.

Vinnie flicked his ring again, the sound crisp and hollow. “Leon brought him in,” he said like it was a prayer. “If Leon hadn’t gone missing, Carmine, you’d be carrying his lunchbox.”

“Leon did go missing,” Carmine snapped. “South Carolina ate him or he ran with his own cut—either way, he ain’t walking through that door.”

Vinnie studied D like a jeweler studies a stone. “You lasted because you listen,” he said. “Don’t make me say it twice.”

D said nothing. He’d learned long ago how powerful that could be.

“Jacari’s cousin,” Vinnie went on. “Tavi. He knows too much about tonight. This is a family, D. We don’t let rot spread.”

Carmine smiled like a razor. “Soft targets are your specialty.”

Vinnie didn’t look at him. “Ralph’s got the address, timelines, who to grease. Go see him. Finish it. Quiet.”

Ralph Vance, the gang’s old paper spine—bribes, permits, fake invoices, ghosts on payroll. The man could launder a hurricane if you gave him a check stub and a shrug.

Suddenly, Milo reappeared, fresh drink in hand. “You want me to roll with—”

“No,” Vinnie said. “D’s solo.”

Carmine’s smile thinned. “I can double-check his work.”

Vinnie finally turned his head, slow, like the effort annoyed him. “Sit down, Carmine. And try not to breathe through your mouth.”

Carmine sat, furious and obedient, the way only blood can be. His stare crawled over D. “If he screws this, it’s on you,” he told Vinnie, but his eyes never left D’s face.

D held the stare until Carmine’s dropped. It never took long.

Vinnie leaned back, all benevolent king. “Tie the ribbon, Cole.”

D nodded once and turned, coat settling over the pistol at his hip. Past the beads, back through the neon fog, the dancers, the bouncer who never met his eyes. Cleveland cold met him at the door and sharpened everything.

Finish it. Quiet.

He could picture Tavi without trying: another kid wearing a borrowed snarl, clutching a paper bag like it had a future in it. Another Jacari. Another version of himself he hadn’t forgiven yet.

No more boys.

Not tonight.

He pulled his collar up, stepped into the wind, and set his feet toward Ralph Vance—already planning how to take the file and turn the job sideways. Already mapping the lies he’d need to tell, the noise he’d have to make somewhere else, the way he’d make Vinnie believe a thing that didn’t happen.

Already disobeying.

The wind had teeth tonight. D walked slow, boots hitting sidewalk puddles that reflected the club’s dying neon like blood in water. He lit a cigarette, mostly out of habit. Didn’t even taste it anymore. Just liked the way it burned when nothing else could.

Half a block from the car, a voice called out.

“Yo, D! That you?”

He turned his head, already knowing who it was.

Ethan Chambers.

Tall, broad-shouldered, varsity-walking. The football kid from Warren High with the movie-star smile and too much potential. Except he wasn’t wearing cleats or carrying a textbook tonight. He had a padded coat zipped halfway, hands in his pockets, eyes a little too sharp for a 17-year-old. Not the sharpness of smarts—but survival. Hunger. That twitchy, restless energy D had seen a thousand times.

He’d seen Ethan a couple times over the past year, bouncing around the Velvet Room like a stray getting too comfortable. D had pulled him aside once, told him to go home. Ethan had laughed. Said home’s not shit, and he’d meant it.

Tonight, he looked even deeper in.

“Man, I been looking for you,” Ethan said, jogging to catch up. “Heard you was running things lately.”

D exhaled smoke, eyeing the kid. “You working for Vinnie now?”

Ethan grinned, like it was something to be proud of. “Direct line, yeah. Ronnie vouched for me. Said I was solid.”

Ronnie.

D’s jaw ticked. The name soured something in him. Ronnie sold survival like it was candy, didn’t care who choked on it. “What kind of work?” D asked, even though he already knew.

Ethan looked around and gave a cocky shrug. “You know. Moves. Pickups. Deliveries. Ain’t a big deal.”

It was always not a big deal until it was.

“Warren’s a long way from here,” D said.

Ethan’s grin flickered. “Ain’t shit left in Warren. You been there lately? Half the block I grew up on’s boarded up. The rest selling meth or rotgut. Fuck am I supposed to do—join a warehouse crew? I got a future here, D. Vinnie sees it.”

That hit harder than it should have. Vinnie sees it. D had said those exact words to himself once. A long time ago. And here it was, history grinning back at him in a borrowed coat and beat-up Nikes.

“You ever think about not doing this?” D asked quietly. “I mean really think.”

Ethan’s smile faded this time for real. “You asking me that while you smell like a fresh scene?”

D didn’t answer. Just stared. Let silence do the talking.

Ethan shifted, uncomfortable. Looked like he was about to say something else—but then just nodded. “Alright, alright. I gotta run anyway. Just... let Vinnie know I came through. He said you’d vouch for me.”

D’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t say I would.”

That paused Ethan for a second. He frowned, confused, but didn’t argue. Just laughed a little, playing it off like it didn’t sting. “Damn. Cold.”

Then he walked off into the night, hands back in his pockets, shoulders up like armor.

D watched him go. Shook his head. Another one walking the edge, thinking he was built for the fall. He’d warned him. Twice. But some kids only learn when the world bites back—and by then, it’s usually too late.

The night swallowed Ethan, and D kept walking.

Toward Ralph. Toward disobedience. Toward one last shot at doing something different before this life drowned another boy.

It was getting late when D reached the strip mall. It was nearly deserted. Just the rustle of trash down Superior and the red glow of a busted traffic light blinking uselessly through the dark. D slipped through the side door like he always did, bypassing the dead security system, and moved down the narrow hallway that stank of cheap printer toner.

Ralph Vance’s office was tucked in the back. Fluorescents buzzed overhead, casting cold light on stacked banker’s boxes and an old metal file cabinet that looked like it weighed more than a car engine. Ralph didn’t look up as D entered—just flipped a page and kept scribbling something in a folder.

D shut the door behind him.

“Jacari?” Ralph asked without preamble.

“Cleaned up,” D said.

Ralph nodded. “You and Milo?”

D didn’t answer.

“Good.” Ralph reached into a drawer and slid a manila folder across the desk. “Then this is yours.”

D picked it up and flipped it open. Mugshot first. Tavion King—nineteen, wide-eyed, hair pulled back, lip split. The kid looked like he didn’t even know what planet he was on.

Beneath the photo: police notes, time of arrest, list of possible charges. Pills in the jacket, a little weed, no priors but suspected ties to Jacari. And the note that made D’s stomach curl:

"No formal charges yet. Holding window still open. Possible cooperation opportunity."

“Picked up walking out of a corner store three nights ago,” Ralph said, leaning back in his creaky chair. “Wrong place, wrong time. Might’ve been real dumb luck. Or maybe someone tipped ’em off.”

“Someone tip you off?” D asked.

Ralph gave him a flat look. “If I knew, you wouldn’t be here.”

D scanned the rest. The arresting officer’s name and badge number—good. Precinct ID—better. Ralph always handed him the right bones to pick clean. But D’s jaw tensed as he read.

This wasn’t just cleanup.

Vinnie wasn’t afraid Tavi would talk about Jacari. Not just that. Tavi wasn’t even one of Vinnie’s. He sold for some other local crew—young kids moving small batches. But he’d been around Jacari. Knew his supplier, maybe even saw who he met that night. And if Tavi decided to cut a deal to save himself? He might drop Vinnie’s name.

D’s stomach soured.

This wasn’t about Tavi. It never was. It was about Vinnie, again. About erasing another mistake. About covering tracks.

And D was the mop. Always the fucking mop.

“He’s not one of ours,” D said aloud, keeping his voice even.

“Nope,” Ralph said. “But he saw too much.”

“He ain’t even been charged yet.”

“Which makes it easier.” Ralph shrugged, like it was obvious. “No paperwork. No fingerprints. No heat.”

D stared down at the mugshot. Nineteen. Just a kid. Just two years older than when Uncle Leon had dragged him into this shit.

The thought came fast, unshakable: Nina could handle this.

If he could get to her in the morning, pass off the badge number, maybe even the arrest report, she could bribe the cop or work her legal magic. She liked getting favors paid forward—and D had a couple chips left in the pot. If she helped the kid walk, Vinnie never had to know.

“Three days,” Ralph said, sipping from a glass he hadn’t offered D. “Maybe two, if the DA gets nosy. After that, they’ll put the kid in holding and he’ll sing like a bird.”

D closed the folder.

Ralph was watching him now. Eyes glassy, half-interested, but not stupid. “You got a plan?” he asked.

“I’ll handle it.”

“Good.” Ralph’s tone didn’t shift. “But just a heads-up—Carmine’s been sniffing around.”

D said nothing.

“Saw you coming out of Vinnie’s looking tight. He don’t like when people look tight.” Ralph smirked faintly. “And he don’t trust anyone Leon brought in.”

No shit. D hadn’t ever been part of their blood-soaked Sunday family. He was the cleanup crew. The wolf in their backyard. Useful. Disposable.

“I don’t give a fuck about Carmine,” D said.

“Don’t have to,” Ralph replied. “But just remember—people disappear when Vinnie gets nervous.”

D slipped the folder under his arm, turned to go.

“Door’s always open,” Ralph called behind him. “You ever wanna cash out, you know where I sit.”

D didn’t answer. He walked out into the cold, the weight of Tavi’s file pressing hard against his ribs.

He wasn’t killing that kid.

No matter what Vinnie wanted.

D got home just before midnight and entered the old brick apartment building from the rear. The stairwell reeked of piss and old fry oil and D climbed it in silence, boots heavy on the concrete, the buzz of a dying wall sconce flickering in the hall. The third-floor door stuck before it gave way with a groan.

His apartment greeted him like it always did—cold, dim, and empty.

Just one long room, exposed brick and water stains, cheap linoleum half curling at the edges. The radiator ticked in the corner like it was thinking about working, and the fridge rumbled once before falling silent again.

The space was barely furnished—on purpose. A mattress on the floor with a threadbare blanket, a cracked nightstand with a single lamp, and a photo frame turned face-down like a secret he didn’t want to face tonight.

By the window, his only real investment: a weight bench, a set of dumbbells lined up beneath it, and a punching bag swaying slightly in the draft from the broken seal. The scent of old sweat and steel lingered in the corners, mixed with the faint, bitter tang of bleach.

D dropped the manila envelope on the counter. The details on Tavi would have to wait.

He peeled off his coat, then his hoodie, and finally the t-shirt that clung to his skin. His body was slick with the day, tight with tension. Muscle shifted easily beneath his dark, sweat-sheened skin—shoulders thick, chest broad, stomach carved with definition. Every inch of him told the story of discipline, of fury reshaped into control.

He crossed the room to the bag and stood still for a moment, head bowed. The silence pressed in around him. Then he moved.

The first hit was light—a warm-up. Just a jab to feel the weight of the thing. Then another, stronger this time. His knuckles met canvas, and the sound echoed like a promise. He began to move faster. Jab, cross, hook. His breath evened out, nostrils flaring, muscles catching the dim light as he slipped into rhythm. The bag swung back, and he followed, a low exhale escaping with each punch.

He imagined Vinnie’s voice, Carmine’s suspicion, Tavi’s too-young face in that grainy mugshot. A kid barely out of high school, already caught in the kind of trap D knew too well.

He hit harder.

His muscles burned, sweat dripping down his back. His shoulders ached, but he didn’t stop. He wouldn’t. He kept going until his fists stung, until his breath came in heavy pulls and his thoughts slowed to a crawl. Until there was nothing left but the rhythm—fist, impact, sway, repeat.

He stepped back finally, chest rising and falling, slick with sweat and heat and fury. His reflection caught faintly in the window glass—broad and bare-chested, eyes dark and unreadable.

Still that weapon Uncle Leon had handed over thirteen years ago. Still doing cleanup for a white man’s blood trail. Still the outsider. The tool. The cleanup crew. The disposable one.

He leaned against the wall and wiped his face with his discarded t-shirt. His body hummed from the exertion, but the ache under his ribs—that old, festering ache—was untouched.

He crossed to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of water from the near-empty fridge, and chugged it back. Then he hit the shower.

Steam rose fast, clouding the mirror, and he let the water hit him hard. He stood there, palms braced against tile, eyes shut. The spray ran down his back, over the curve of his muscles, across the old scars that never really faded. His jaw was clenched, but his shoulders, finally, started to relax.

Vinnie’s fear wasn’t complicated: if Tavi decided to bargain, the kid could name names—maybe even the right one. Vinnie liked kids around until he didn’t. Then they were loose ends. And D—D was the blade. Be a knife, Vinnie said. Cut quietly.

He closed his eyes. He saw the path clean as a diagram.

Morning: Nina. Not a text—face to face. Coffee at that place near the courthouse she hated but used because the barista didn’t listen. Hand her the badge number, the precinct, the “holding window.” Ask what Officer Barlow liked—cash, favors, leverage. Nina would know. She always knew. Get Tavi popped loose on a technical, or pushed to a diversion program, or “lost” in paperwork until the kid could be walked out with a hood up and head down. Put two grand on it, maybe three. More if she asked. He could make that appear.

Then: put Tavi on a bus. South if he had to. Give him some cash and five minutes of hard advice. Disappear him before Carmine decided to go sniffing. Let Vinnie think the job took, or better, let him think someone else did it and botched the disposal.

It was possible. Risky, but possible. He could feel the lock pick in his brain finding tumblers and testing them, one by one.

He turned off the water, dried off, and dressed in soft, worn sweats. The cold returned fast, but it felt honest now.

Before bed, he sat on the edge of the mattress and picked up the photo frame on the nightstand. He stared at it in silence.

His family, years ago.

Back when they were all still here.

D sat on the edge of the mattress and stared at it. He remembered the day—his mother had made them all line up for a church photo. She wore her nicest wig. His little sister had her hair in beads, grinning wide. His brothers stood awkwardly, already pretending to be men. D was tallest, even then. Seventeen. Angry. Already half gone.

They grew up hard. West side Cleveland. No father—he’d vanished into crack and never clawed back out. The streets raised them, taught them fast and dirty.

D’s oldest brother didn’t last long. Shot over a girl when he was twenty. The next one got locked before he hit eighteen and was currently sitting in Mansfield on a charge that started stupid and got stubborn.

His sister… she got out. That was the miracle. Ohio State. Scholarships. She’d cut ties when she left, and D had let her. Maybe she needed to forget them to survive. He didn’t blame her. He just wished she hadn’t been so good at it.

And his mother—God, his mother. Sweet and stubborn and quiet. She’d been sick for years, but never let it show. Never stopped working until her body gave out. His mother had fought cancer until there was nothing left to fight with. Vinnie had helped with bills that year. He’d kept D out of a cell twice, too, when bad nights got louder than good choices.

That counted once.

Now it tasted like someone else’s spit in his mouth.

He set the frame face-down.

He was just a tool. A cleaner. A hammer sent after boys who reminded him of his own blood. Of himself. Young, hungry, messy—and doomed. Jacari. Tavi. So many others. Vinnie whispered “quick,” but it was always slow. Always ugly.

D’s jaw clenched.

He wanted out.

He didn’t know what that looked like, or where it started, but maybe… maybe saving Tavi was one step. Maybe talking to Nina in the morning could start the rest.

With a sigh, he lay down on the mattress. The ceiling was cracked, spiderwebbing above him. He stared at it until sleep pulled him under.

Morning came gray and thin, the kind of Cleveland light that made everything look like it needed washing. D parked two blocks from the courthouse and walked the rest, collar up, hands in his pockets, moving with that loose, dangerous calm that made people step aside without knowing why.

The coffee shop Nina tolerated sat on the corner like it regretted existing—clouded windows, chalkboard menu, a barista who never made eye contact and never remembered names, which was exactly why Nina used it. No one listened here. No one cared.

She was in the back booth, facing the door, because of course she was. Pretty in a way that had nothing to do with effort—dark hair twisted up, stray strands the only thing misbehaving; thin gold hoops; clean, sharp makeup that said court, not club. Navy dress, black coat folded beside her, heels parked under the table like a warning. Forties, sure, but she wore it like a knife wears a sheath.

Her eyes slid over him and warmed, quick and private. “Cole.” The corner of her mouth tipped. “You’re early. I should’ve known.”

“Hi, Nina.” He slid in across from her. The table was small; he made it feel smaller without trying. Big hands, long forearms, the faint rope of veins a map to a heartbeat that never seemed to hurry. He smelled like soap and cigarettes and cold air.

“You bring me anything fun?” she asked, all lightness, but her gaze had teeth.

He tapped the manila folder between them. “Tavion King. Fifth District. Officer Barlow. They’ve got him sitting in the holding window hoping he panics and sings.”

She didn’t reach for the folder. Instead she reached for him in that lawyer way—questions first, paper second. “How old?”

“Nineteen.”

“How stupid?”

“Regular amount.”

She made a face that said poor kid and of course at the same time. Then she flicked her fingers toward the counter. “Coffee?”

“I’ll hate it.”

“You always do.” She lifted two fingers without looking; the barista nodded like they’d rehearsed it. “So. What do you want me to do?”

“Get him out clean,” D said. “Today if you can. I’ll put him on a bus and make him disappear. No ripples.”

Nina leaned in, elbows on the table, chin on the back of her hand. “Barlow’s the one with the boat he can’t afford,” she said. “He’s a mortgage in a uniform. I can move him. If cash doesn’t do it, fear will.”

D’s mouth twitched. “Still romantic.”

“I save my romance for men who read their discovery,” she deadpanned, and then softened. “And for strays with bad timing. You know I bury these boys on paper, right? Transfer hearings, adult pleas, ‘best interest of justice.’ They don’t die, but they disappear. Yesterday it was a sixteen-year-old who thought mule work was a summer job. Before that, a kid who took a plea he didn’t understand because his mom wanted him home for Thanksgiving.” She shook her head once, as if to get the taste out of her mouth. “I’m getting very, very bored with bleeding for men who call it business.”

“I know,” he said, and he did. It sat there between them, heavy and shared.

The coffees arrived and thunked down. Nina pushed his across. “Black. I remember.”

He took a sip, winced. “Still terrible.”

“It’s almost a skill.”

He nodded at the folder. “Badge number’s inside. Arrest time. Precinct. They flagged him as a cooperation opportunity.”

“Of course they did.” She finally opened the file, flipping pages with her long, neat fingers, eyes darting quick. “Anonymous tip. Camera delay. Field test turned pink because God felt festive.” A small, satisfied sound. “Doable. I’ll start with Barlow—money first, bedtime story about Internal Affairs second. Then I’ll call County and ask the intake paperwork to take its sweet time finding the light of day. If the complaint never materializes, he walks on a technical. If it does, I’ll steer him to citation-and-release while the lab argues with colors. ADA Price likes clean dockets, and she owes me besides.”

He watched her while she worked—sharp, fast, pretty like a blade. She caught him looking and didn’t mind.

“What do I get?” she asked, not coy, not greedy. Just business with a smile she couldn’t quite swallow.

“Two grand,” he said. “Three if you want it. And a favor I won’t give Vinnie.”

Her brows went up a fraction. “You holding out on the king to give me a knight? Be still my heart.” She closed the folder and rested her palm on it. “Two is fine. I’ll take the favor on ice.”

He nodded. “Cash, in person.”

“Obviously.” She tapped the cover. “Text me the badge number and arrest time anyway. And if you can find a mother’s name, judges love mothers.”

“Badge and time are in there.” He swallowed once. “No mother.”

Her face changed for half a second—soft, then gone. “Almost no one has one by the time they come to me,” she said. “I’ll make do.”

They sat with it. The café hummed. Outside, a bus sighed and dragged itself away from the curb; the window fogged and cleared with the door’s half-broken seal. Nina wrapped both hands around her mug like she might warm them, then let one go and looked up.

“You look good,” she said casually. “It’s irritating.”

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.” Her eyes lingered a moment longer than professional on the span of his shoulders, the thick line of his throat. Then she let herself grin. “You know you could say yes to dinner. One time. For my morale.”

“I’m not your guy, Nina.”

“I know.” She didn’t bother pretending it didn’t sting; she was too grown for that. “I like watching you say no, though. Keeps my other bad habits honest.”

“You like competence,” he said.

“I like that you don’t flinch when it’s time to do the right thing the wrong way.” She tipped her head. “I also like your hands, but I’m a professional.”

He almost smiled. Almost. “Flattery logged.”

The smile faded from her eyes first. “Be careful,” she said, voice lower. “Carmine’s sniffing. He thinks you’re soft.”

“He’s wrong about the word,” D said. “Not the heart.”

“That’s what gets people shot.” She didn’t blink. “Ralph sells information like gum. Carmine buys it to chew with his mouth open. Vinnie pretends not to hear until it suits him. Don’t give them a clean line to you.”

“I won’t.”

“Good.” She slid the folder back toward him, then pushed it away again, indecisive for once. “You’re going to keep the boy off paper. Head down. Back lot. No speeches.”

“No speeches,” he agreed. “Cash, ticket, bus.”

“Where?”

“South. Somewhere with buses that leave on time.”

“Bring extra cash,” she said. “Kids who don’t plan always think they can eat air.”

He nodded. He was already making the list in his head—ticket, hoodie, burner, cash, bus times that didn’t stop in Cleveland long enough for anybody to notice.

Nina checked her watch and made a face. “Give me two hours to soften the ground. Four to make it look like fate. If I don’t text by noon, assume I’m breaking something expensive.”

He finished the coffee out of respect for the ritual and pushed the cup away. When he stood, she stood too. Up close, he was a wall and a warmth at the same time. Up close, she was sharper, prettier—laugh lines at her eyes, a tiny scar at the lip no lipstick could erase. She reached like she might touch his sleeve and then didn’t, fingers curling around her pen instead.

“I’m not doing this for Vinnie,” she said.

“I know.”

“I’m not doing it for you either,” she lied, gentle.

Nina had been Vinnie’s personal lawyer for fifteen years—the name on every retainer, the voice that smoothed his disasters into paperwork and precedent. She kept his books clean and his boys quieter, turned fires into filings and blood into “unfortunate incidents.” But she’d always had a soft spot for D. Maybe it was the way he listened. Maybe it was the way he didn’t pretend the job was anything but ugly. Every so often, off the books and off the clock, she’d help him like this—nudge a cop, slow a docket, open a door no one else knew was there. She called it professional courtesy. He called it a favor he’d remember. Truth was, she liked him, and she was tired of watching kids get fed to the grinder. So she kept Vinnie out of court by day and, when she could live with it, kept D’s strays out of the ground by night.

He smiled at her, slow. “Thanks, Nina.”

She exhaled, small and through her nose. “Text me what I asked for. And D—” He looked at her. “Save one for yourself sometime.”

He gave the smallest nod, like a promise he couldn’t afford to word, and left her to the bad coffee and the work she was too good at. Outside, the wind dragged along the block and tried to get in his coat; he tucked his chin and cut through it.

By noon there’d be a text and a door. By sundown, a kid with a split lip would be on a bus with his heart still beating.

After that—he kept the horizon close on purpose.

***

Nina’s text came at 11:47: back lot. brown door. five minutes.

D was already there.

The service door kicked open and a deputy with a tired face stepped out first, pretending to look for a smoke. Tavi followed in a too-big sweatshirt, eyes blown wide from fluorescent hours. Split lip, shaking hands, trying to look tough and landing on scared.

“D?” he asked, like the name might bite.

“Come on,” D said, and moved.

They took the stairs down to the alley where the dumpster stink cut clean through the day. D handed over a black hoodie, a ball cap, a cheap flip phone, and an envelope with a quiet thickness to it.

Tavi looked at the stack. “What is all this?”

“Enough to leave and keep leaving,” D said. “You get on the two-thirty. Sit near the back. Don’t talk. When you change buses, change your seat and your hat. Don’t call anybody you love for a while. If anyone asks your name, you forgot it.”

Tavi nodded too fast, eyes shining but stubbornly dry. “Do I owe—”

“You don’t owe me,” D said. “You don’t owe him either.”

Tavi stared at the pavement. “Jacari was my cousin.”

“I know.”

“I ain’t gonna say nothing.”

“Good.” D pulled the cap down over Tavi’s brow like a blessing. “Move.”

They walked the two blocks to the station in silence. Buses sighed, pigeons shuffled, a fryer somewhere pushed out the smell of old oil. D bought the ticket, pressed it into Tavi’s hand, and waited under the cracked station clock while the kid climbed aboard with careful, newborn steps. Tavi glanced back once through the scratched window.

D didn’t wave. He just held the look until Tavi sat, head low, shoulders squared like he’d decided to keep breathing.

The bus heaved, blinked its red lights, and rolled out. Diesel hung in the air for a long time after it turned the corner. D stood there until the smell thinned, then tucked the burner deeper in his pocket and started walking.