CHAPTER 4
Sparks
Have I mentioned how much I fucking hate coffee?
Bitter, harsh, yuck. But Derek believes in this thing called a routine, so every morning is the same.
Coffee and team meeting, gym time, and then work.
Derek says it’s to promote serotonin and shit, but I know it’s just so he can keep an eye on me, make sure I’m not slipping back into the hole that he dug me out of.
In an annoying way, I appreciate it. I’ve never liked coffee, always ordering a hot chocolate or a tea instead, but I’ve sworn off hot chocolate after her.
It wouldn’t be as good as hers anyway. It would bring up memories that are best kept away, so Derek always pours me a cup of brew. But I still hate coffee.
Oliver is on his third cup, gradually waking up, while Derek only needs one cup to be a functioning human.
We’ve gone over all of the standard agenda points.
The final topic is a potential expansion opportunity.
A betting establishment up north is failing and is looking for an investor.
Oliver confirms we have the cash flow to back it up, but Derek is worried about sharing stakes in the ring.
“If they’re keeping ownership, we lose control,” Derek argues. “Then it’s up to them to ensure all payments are honored and that standards are held. It’s not a good look on us if they get lax.”
“I think we’re ignoring the obvious issue,” I add. “Why do they even need cash? More money isn’t going to fix poor business practices. I say we offer to buy them out completely or walk away.”
“But think about the territorial implications!” Oliver contributes. “We’re making waves, but just imagine how much noise we’ll make if we take 87th and Cardiff Street. It’s practically unheard of for syndicates to set up that far north.”
“We don’t move to be flashy,” Derek warns. “We move when we are stable enough to support it. Stability is strength. That being said, I do think we have enough manpower to extend our borders.”
“Oliver, can you set up a meeting with their staff?” I ask. “I want you to take a look at their books directly.”
Oliver nods and takes his coffee cup to his office. Derek and I pound knuckles as we walk into the gym. We wrap up our hands and wrists to spar.
“That was a good call, Sparkie.” Derek beams with pride as we step into the ring. “You are really growing into your role as a mafiosa.”
“Stop buttering me up.” I roll my eyes. “Just punch me already.”
“No, no, no,” Derek teases. “The goal is to not get punched.”
I groan and raise my hands. We circle each other for a few seconds, getting reacquainted with the rhythm of the gym.
I duck as Derek swings a right hook, but don’t see the left jab until I barely have time to block.
I throw a kick and catch him below his ribs.
He curses and I smirk, challenging him to do something about it.
He does. I block what I can, and try to return fire when there’s an opening, but I end up receiving the rough end of the sparring.
Derek is pulling his punches, but I know I might have a few light bruises regardless.
Behind me, I hear a loud crash. I glance to look, just as a roundhouse catches me in the ribs. The breath is knocked from my lungs as I skid on the floor. I roll onto my hands and knees to recover.
“Shit, Sparks.” Derek jogs over. “Are you okay? I’ve told you, focus on the fight inside the ring.”
I don’t hear what he says. Instead, I’m back on that goddamn boat.
Powerless, fragile, weak. Crawling away as I am pulled back by my ankle.
Defenseless as his hands roam my body. Gun pointed at Astrid.
I won’t let him hurt me again. With or without powers, I won’t be a victim again.
I won’t stop until I’m stronger, faster, better.
I punch the floor, anger flaring. I recognize the lights of the gym are flashing. Other exercise enthusiasts clear out, weary of the massive shitshow that often accompanies my outbursts. I stand, reigning in my powers. Derek and I lock eyes, and I raise my fists.
Derek swings first, and I dodge while shooting a jab that catches his shoulder.
We go back and forth again. This time I hold my own.
We exchange blows until sweat drips from our arms and our knees are weak with exhaustion.
Eventually, we both fall onto our backs, too tired to walk to the showers.
Derek and I lie there in a comfortable silence, panting for air.
“He’s dead,” Derek says suddenly. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”
“I still have nightmares.” I stare at the ceiling, unable to meet his eyes.
He doesn’t have to say Jack’s name aloud.
We both know who we’re talking about. “I’m just waiting for him to pull the trigger, knowing there’s nothing I can do.
The target changes, sometimes it’s Astrid or you. Other times, it’s Jeremiah.”
We don’t talk about Jeremiah much. He used to work with Derek and Oliver when they were a part of the now-collapsed gang, the Tributaries.
He died last December protecting me. Jack tortured us together before he just…
shot him. No warning, no real reason. Just to feel powerful.
I know Derek and Oliver think about Jeremiah a lot.
Neither one of them disagreed when I suggested we send a cut of our earnings each month to his mother.
We’ve never said anything to her. Simply mail a check with “In Honor of Jeremiah” on the memo line. It’s the least we could do.
“You’re a better fighter than you were then.” Derek’s voice cuts through my internal spiral. “You know how to control the situation.”
“I know,” I whisper.
“You can protect yourself,” Derek reassures.
“I can protect myself,” I repeat.
I can protect myself. I can protect myself. I can.
After a shower, we paid a little visit to the failing gambling ring.
Derek and Oliver sit at the table, negotiating with the current owner.
I stand behind them, posing as one of the bodyguards.
A few more of our men stand outside, ready to intervene if necessary.
It’s poor taste to launch an attack during formal meetings, but we like to be prepared.
I try to pay attention to the discussion, but I don’t really care. Revenue, profit sharing, blah, blah, blah. Oliver will summarize everything to me later anyway. That’s good enough for me.
We take the show on the road as the owner offers a tour.
This is where I come in handy. I slink into the shadows, preferring to observe from a distance.
I study the body language of the small crowd – who’s winning, who’s losing, what the protocols seem to be.
There must be some reason why this place is failing, and I’m determined to find it out.
After a few minutes of sleuthing, it’s painstaking clear what the problem is.
Patrons are betting more than they can spend, and no one is checking for collateral.
Losers don’t have anything to collect, so to prevent winners from getting ripped-off, the difference comes from the pocket of the house.
This certainly won’t do. If we want to play in this establishment, serious change is in order.
I regroup with Derek and Oliver as the tour wraps up. I can tell that they are also not enthused with the state of the place. The owner is frazzled, trying to save the investment. He must really be desperate.
The door opens and I casually observe a man walk to the bar.
He’s backlit so I have trouble making out specific features, but I know who he is.
I feel my shoulders tense as I break off from the group.
Derek notices my unusual reaction and subtly gestures for the group to split.
Half of the guards stroll behind me without drawing attention from the owner.
The mystery man is turned away from me, talking to the bartender. I can hear his voice clearly.
“Rum and Coke,” he orders. I know that voice. I know it all too well.
“We’re all out,” the bartender says flatly, rubbing the counter with a towel, glancing at me. All out? There’s plenty of rum right behind him.
Suddenly, the man takes off sprinting. Damn it! The bartender tipped him off!
“The bartender doesn’t leave!” I shout as I take off after the runner.
Blinded as I burst into the late afternoon sun, it takes me a second to locate the man.
When I find him, he’s already got a block lead on me.
Fuck. We weave through crowds of people.
I’m gaining on him as he scrambles down a staircase, taking the steps two at a time.
The metro! I make it to the platform just in time to see him board a train.
I throw myself toward the doors, but they close before I can board.
The man turns to face me from the relative safety of the train car. The same goddamn cocky smirk. Jack has risen from the dead.
Waves of fury waft off of me as I return to the gambling den. The security detail gives me a healthy berth, but Derek holds his hand out to stop me. I sidestep him and walk straight up to the bartender, socking him in the face.
“Where is he?” I roar, clutching his lapels and pulling him down to me. Derek and Oliver grab me and drag me away, kicking and screaming. “You fucking bastard! Where is he?”
Oliver closes the door of the supply closet as Derek holds me against the wall, still squirming.
“Sparks, pull yourself together,” Derek scolds. “Take a fucking breath and talk to us. We look like we have our thumbs in our fucking assholes out there!”
“Jack’s alive!” I can’t breathe. My vision goes fuzzy.
My heart is beating a mile a minute in my chest. Derek releases his hold on me in shock, and I fall to my knees.
Is the world vibrating, or am I shaking that hard?
“He’s alive. The fucking bartender tipped him off.
I chased him to the subway, but I didn’t make the train. But it’s him, I’m sure of it.”