I sat up straighter, the chill cutting right through my spine. "What about Kyle?"
"He's fine," Rocco reassured quickly. "I've got him locked in the clinic. He won't step a toe outside without someone watching. Especially now that he knows you're alive and hiding in Kina's place."
I nodded, but that unease was still thrumming in my chest.
Kyle.
I remembered the first time I met his mom.. a woman from the Redlight District with fire in her eyes and nothing in her pockets. She'd helped me once when I was still nothing but a shadow at the syndicate, no questions asked. Fed me. Patched me up. Spat at the thugs tailing me. And I repaid her loyalty with protection, kept her off the streets when I could. We became friends, in that strange, fragile way people in pain sometimes did.
When she got sick—leukemia, aggressive, she didn't even tell me until it was too late to save her. She died in that crumbling apartment with Kyle holding her hand and me sitting on the floor outside the door.
I'd buried her.
And I swore I'd take care of the boy she left behind.
"He's safer than most," Rocco added, sensing the silence stretch too long. "But Kieran… we've got a bigger problem."
I looked at him.
"Scorpion might be closer than you think."
My eyes narrowed.
"You need to end him," Rocco said, blunt and direct now. "Before he gets to you first."
"I know," I muttered, fingers tapping slowly against my knee. "But Scorpion's not the one who gave the order that night."
Rocco blinked. "You're sure?"
I nodded. "He's a vicious bastard, yeah. But not smart enough to orchestrate that hit. Someone else is pulling strings. Someone in the shadows. And if I'm right… Scorpion's just a distraction."
Rocco swore under his breath. "So what, you think there's someone higher up?"
"I don't think," I said darkly. "I know."
"Klan?" The name fell of his tongue like a mistake rather than a suggestion.
My muscles tensed. I didn't even want to think of Klan. My gaze sharpened at Rocco.
He exhaled and stood up, pacing a bit before tossing something from his coat onto the table. A small clear vial, filled with a glowing, electric-blue liquid.
"And then there's this."
I picked it up, turning it in my hand.
"A new drug. Prototype-grade," Rocco explained. "Hit the underground circuit a few months ago. Scorpion's goons are juiced up on it, and now he's got a personal stash. We intercepted a deal and I got my hands on one."
"What's it do?"
"Pushes the body past its natural limit. It taps into a suppressed part of the adrenal system. Boosts everything, speed, strength, pain tolerance. You take this, and you don't feel anything. Not even broken bones. Not even dying."
"Sounds like a bad comic book," I muttered.
"Yeah, well, comic book or not.. it's real. And expensive. The street price is absurd. One dose is enough to turn a man into a beast for fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of hell."
I rolled the vial between my fingers, then set it back down.
"I don't care if he's juiced up like a goddamn super soldier. I'll end Scorpion," I said. "Just like I should've years ago. And this time, I'm not letting him crawl away with broken hands."
Rocco nodded, quiet now. He believed me.
He always did.
Rocco was still leaning against the wall, arms crossed and waiting, when I moved toward the far end of the coffee table and rolled the white paper he also brought with him on my orders. A map.
"We'll hit him where it stings first," I said. "He's stockpiling weapons through the port channels that used to be mine. Which means someone's feeding him my old routes. We'll intercept the next shipment scheduled for Friday. Blow it up if necessary—no product, no leverage."
Rocco tilted his head. "You planning to smoke him out?"
I nodded. "More than that. I want to make him paranoid. Unstable. When Scorpion starts doubting his own men, the whole faction will crumble from the inside. We starve him, strip him, make his own people distrust him and then I slit his goddamn throat."
"Spicy," Rocco muttered, but there was a glint of approval in his eyes. Then his gaze dipped to my side. "Speaking of slitting.. take off your shirt. Let me look at that wound."
I sighed and peeled the fabric up, revealing the taped gauze wrapped around my torso. The moment I tugged it off, Rocco let out a low whistle.
The wound was no longer fresh, but not healed either. Angry pink surrounded the bullet hole scar, which had begun knitting together—until a faint split at the edge told me I'd torn it a few days ago.
"Jesus," Rocco murmured, stepping forward. He reached into his bag and pulled out antiseptic, fresh gauze, tweezers. "This should've had two more weeks of rest. You're lucky the bleeding stopped."
"It's fine," I said, gritting my teeth as he pressed a damp cloth against the skin.
"You've got torn subcutaneous tissue and a stretched dermis," he muttered, more to himself than me. "Healing's happening in layers, but you keep overexerting. At this rate, you'll end up tearing the fascia too."
"I understood like five words of that."
"You're a walking hemorrhage," he said. "That's the summary."
Despite his grumbling, he cleaned it efficiently, fingers quick and practiced. After patching it back up with medical tape and wrapping a compression bandage over it, he stepped back and gave me a withering look.
"Next time you plan on playing vigilante, maybe don't stretch your damn stitches."
"Duly noted, Doc."
I walked into the kitchen and made my way to the storage shelf, the briefcase tucked firmly under my arm. I crouched in front of the bottom shelf and ran my fingers along the back panel until I found the loose edge.
It shifted with a soft click, just enough to reveal the narrow, hollow space behind it. I slid the briefcase inside carefully, making sure it was pushed all the way to the back, out of sight. Then I pressed the panel back into place, sealing it like nothing had ever been touched.
When I straightened, Rocco was already slinging his bag over his shoulder.
"Hey," I said, pausing as he moved toward the door. "What foods are rich in iron?"
Rocco blinked at me. "What? You think you're bleeding out now?"
"No. It's not for me." I glanced at the lunchbox I'd packed for Kina. "It's for her."
The bastard grinned wide.
"Ohhh. Someone's paying attention to a certain someone's cycle, huh? Look at you. Softie."
"Shut up."
"You shut up. That's adorable. You should get her liver, spinach, maybe some lentils. Beef, too. Oh—molasses, if she's into that."
I raised an eyebrow.
"And don't forget vitamin C. Helps absorb the iron. Get her oranges or kiwi or something. Be a good husband."
I reached for the closest item, a small, empty mug and aimed it at his head. He ducked, cackling.
"I will kill you."
"After you cook her beef stew, lover boy."
I shoved him lightly toward the door. "Out."
He laughed all the way down the hallway, whistling like a damn fool.
The apartment fell silent once again. The absence hit louder than the noise.
I leaned against the door for a second, exhaling slowly. My gaze wandered to the counter where I packed her lunchbox earlier. I should've added a thermos of tea. Something warm. Something to help with the cramps. Fuck.
I dragged a hand down my face.
Was she okay?
Next time, I'd do better.
I'd remember the tea.