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“Because I kill their husbands and drag their children out of their rooms in the night.”

“The truth,” she demanded. Her voice was sharp as a guillotine, slicing the air in two.

Patrick almost smiled. “All right,” he began. “The truth is, my family is in the business of justice.”

She frowned at him. “What does that mean?”

“Sometimes it means feedin’ people, helpin’ them find safety,” he said. “Other times, it means dynamite and bad deals and men with bullets between their eyes.”

He paused, waiting for it to sink in. He saw the fear when she swallowed, when the gooseflesh rose along the column of her neck.

“Oftentimes,” he continued, “the business requires me to do both, and the people here know it. They’ve seen it. That inspires fear in a lot of ’em. But it inspires trust, too. The village needs somethin’ big and bad to stalk about in the night. They feel safer havin’ it, even if they’re scared of it.” Patrick looked around at the guests of the teahouse. “As you said, the war hasn’t touched this town, and they know they have Colson and Sons to thank.”

“The big bad thing in the night,” Nina echoed.

Patrick nodded. “That’s the whole of it. I do sorry things for the greater good of this town, and that’s all you need to know.”

“And what about the rest of the world?”

“That’s someone else’s village.”

The tea arrived in chipped cups and mismatched saucers, but steam rose pleasingly from the bread, and Nina’s attention was absorbed. She placed her hands carefully in her lap, as if to keep them from clawing at the food.

Patrick scowled. “Waiting for somethin’?”

Her eyes did not leave the plate. She must be starving. “Would you like—”

“Just eat, Nina.”

And she did. Artisan etiquette be damned, she nearly devoured the slice whole.

She grinned, satisfied, when the food was gone. “Lord, that’s good.”

“They don’t have lavender cake in your big city?”

“I haven’t been to the city in seven years,” she said, dusting crumbs from her fingers. “We can stop pretending I’ve been living a life of luxury, if you please.”

The clatter of the door ricocheting off plasterboard interrupted further conversation. A gust of dry, cold wind swept through the tables, danced among legs, and Patrick turned to find Otto in the entrance, chest heaving, cap in hand. “Patty,” he huffed, looking over the heads of other patrons. He paid no mind to the groups of people, who stared aghast and backed their chairs away, expecting trouble.

And who could blame them? Otto was made for trouble.

That was what he’d told Patrick the day he’d caught Otto thieving cigarettes from the market. He’d been barely seventeen then, thin as a post, teeth bared.You’re asking for a whole lotta trouble, thieving from John Colson, Patrick had told him.

Was made for trouble, he’d spat. He’d scrapped like a prizefighter all the way back to the hotel, had stopped only when the barrel of a pistol was pointed at him. Patrick’s father had taken one long look at the boy and said,Trouble is just what we need.

Patrick stood.

“There’re hawkers in the market,” Otto said simply, and every eye in the teahouse turned to Patrick.

Problems and fixes.

“Stay here,” he told Nina, swallowing his tea in one gulp.

She was already on her feet. Already rounding the table. “No,” she said firmly.

“God, help me.”

Patrick threw a handful of coins onto the table, wove back through the diners, and followed Otto out onto the street.