Chapter 35 Cloe #2
I opened my eyes. He circled slowly. Not because he needed to. Because he wanted me to feel it. The calm of a predator with nowhere else to be.
When he came into view again, I didn’t look away. His hands were clasped behind his back. His eyes scanned my face with a precision that made my stomach twist. He didn’t smile. Not this time.
“I think you misunderstand your role here,” he said.
I didn’t answer.
He crouched, folded his body with a grace that didn’t match the room, didn’t match the stink of old blood under the bleach, didn’t belong in a place where people like me were made to bleed.
“You think this is about you,” he said. “But it’s not.”
He leaned in closer. His voice dropped.
“It was never about you.”
I felt my jaw tighten. Not from fear. From clarity.
“Camille,” I whispered.
He nodded.
Slow.
“Smart girl.”
He reached into his coat. Pulled something folded. Laid it across my lap.
A photo. I stared at it. Her face. Camille. But not how I remembered her. Not laughing. Not smirking. Cold. Still. Dead.
There was blood smeared across her mouth. Her eyes were half-open. Like she died seeing who did it. I wondered if she smiled when she saw it coming. If she knew we would carry her name like armor.
My breath caught. He dropped another. Me. From the corner of the room. Tied. Slumped. Bruised. Now.
“You’re just a placeholder,” he said.
I met his eyes. And smiled. Because Wolfe taught me to breathe through death. Because Barron taught me to kneel without breaking. Because Camille died screaming in silence—and I was still breathing.
He stood.
“Your scream won’t matter,” he said.
He stepped closer.
I didn’t flinch.
“You think someone’s coming?”
He leaned down. So close his breath brushed my cheek.
“No one survives this.”
I turned my face slightly.
Let my mouth hover near his ear.
And I whispered: "He does." He froze. Just for a second.
And it was enough. I saw it. The crack. The fracture. The fear. Then he turned. Left the photos on my lap. And walked out.
The door shut. The lock clicked. And I stared down at Camille’s dead eyes. And made a vow. You won’t forget us. You won’t bury us. And I won’t be the one they mourn.
The sound of money has a rhythm. Soft, slick, like pages in a book being thumbed too fast. Not a shuffle. A hiss. Like breath caught in a chest.
That was the first thing I heard when the door opened again. Not boots. Not shouting. Not pain. Just cash. Counted slow. Fingers wet from sweat pressing each bill down with care. He was humming. Low. Off-key. The tune didn’t matter. The ease did.
I didn’t look up. I didn’t have to. I knew who it was by the way the air changed. The room went heavier. More personal. Like the walls leaned in.
He walked past the camera. Past the chair he’d once strapped me to. He didn’t glance at the screen still blinking quietly in the corner. The images of smoke and flame were old news now.
He sat on the crate to my right. Set the money down beside him. Stacks. Hundreds. Bound tight. Clean. Too clean.
My wrists ached from their bindings. My skin was slick with sweat, blood, adrenaline that never crested. My throat was raw. But I still had breath. And that meant I still had Wolfe.
He stared at the money for a while. Didn’t speak. Just admired it. Ran his finger along the edge of each bundle like he couldn’t decide whether to count it again or just fuck it.
He exhaled through his nose.
“It’s funny,” he said. “When you think about it. All this for one girl.”
I didn’t answer. My voice was gone. Not from screaming. From holding it back. Because they didn’t deserve to hear me. Not until Wolfe was there to silence them. He looked over at me finally. Eyes small. Pale. Cold.
“You cost a lot of men a lot of debt.”
He leaned forward. His elbows rested on his knees. He smelled like salt and cigarettes and power that never learned to whisper.
“You know,” he said, “I was supposed to get shot four months ago. Back of the head. Strip club in Southwood. But you?”
He chuckled.
“You bought me time.”
His hand reached out. Slow. Gentle. It brushed a strand of hair from my face. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t blink. He leaned in close.
“That’s the thing about whores who think they’re saints,” he whispered. “You always get used.”
I let him touch me. I wanted his fingerprints on my skin. He would see them. And Wolfe wouldn't carve. He would ruin.
The shark sat back. He picked up a cigarette. Lit it. Took one long drag. Blew the smoke toward the ceiling like the air above me didn’t matter.
“Guess it was a stroke of luck I grabbed you when I did,” he said.
He gestured to the TV. The image was looping now. The Lawlor building crumbling again and again like the footage refused to end.
He turned to me.
“So,” he said, voice almost bored, “what are we gonna do about the money you owe me?”
He stood. Stepped in front of me. The smoke curled around his head. His shirt clung to his back. He reached down. Took my chin in his fingers.
“You gonna work it off? Is that it?”
He smiled.
“Or maybe we cut our losses. Make a new video. Send it to your boyfriend. Let him hear what it sounds like when someone else ruins you.”
I stared into his eyes. And smiled. I didn't need to fight him. I just needed him to breathe. So Wolfe would know where to strike.
I heard it. Outside. Distant. A crack. Not thunder. Gunfire.
Another.
Closer.
The shark didn’t hear it.
Not yet. But I did.
Because I was his leash.
And he was coming to drag me back.