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It’s made me sharper. More dangerous.
Because now? I’ve got more to lose.
Santos gives me a slow, knowing nod. “The same thing happened at my body shop.”
Of course, I already knew that. That’s why we’re here.
I shift my gaze to Vincent, and I see it immediately—the subtle tension in his jaw, the way his fingers tap just a little too fast against the table.
He’s nervous.
Which means he knows something or he’s guilty.
“You got something to say, Morelli?” I ask, my voice sharp enough to cut through the thick atmosphere.
Vincent scoffs, but it’s weak. “I don’t know what you or the old man are talking about. You asked me to come here. I’m here. But I didn’t shoot anyone.”
I nod slowly. “Right.” I glance at Vaughn. “Remind me—how many men deny their participation in whatever stupid shit they’ve done?”
Vaughn smirks. “Too many.”
Christian leans forward, his dark eyes cold. “But they always seem to find the truth toward the end.”
Vincent exhales sharply, his fingers stilling against the table.
“Now, see,” I continue, my voice calm, deadly, controlled. “I think you may need a brief lesson on how this works. Do you know Ben Pierre?”
“Of course, I know him. The Hatian hellraiser. Everyone in LA knows who he is.”
“Then you should know that when people he does business with, such as myself and Mr. Santos, are being targeted, that makes him uneasy, and an uneasy Ben is like a powder keg.”
“So?”
“That’s where I come in. I’m here to make sure that shit doesn’t blow up.”
Vincent shifts in his seat, his bravado cracking just slightly.
I take another pause, letting silence press in on him.
Then, I sit back, my hands relaxed on the table, my posture easy—like this is nothing more than a casual conversation.
“You put a bullet in my car,” I say, my voice low and measured. “That’s a declaration of war. But you’re young and dumb, and I’m in a generous fucking mood. So I’m going to give you a choice.”
Vincent swallows. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I nod toward Christian.
Christian reaches into his jacket, pulls out a thick, white envelope, and slides it across the table toward Vincent.
Vincent eyes it warily.
“Open it,” I instruct.
He does, his brows furrowing as he pulls out the contents—ten thousand dollars in cash.
“You’re out,” I say simply. “No more moving weight through Santo’s shop, no more backdoor deals at the Blue Whiskey, and no more stupid motherfuckers that work for you taking shots at us.”
Vincent looks up, his face paling. “That’s?—”