Page 44 of Brick's Retribution

"Third floor," she says quietly. "End of the hall."

The apartment is small but good enough—clearly maintained and recently used.

It's furnished like a temporary refuge rather than a home, with the basics but nothing personal except for a singlephotograph on the side table: a younger Imani with a woman who must be her mother.

Honestly, it more looks like an AirBnB than anything else.

"Nice place," I say, checking the windows and exits out of habit.

"My mother believed in having options. I don’t remember a lot about her, but I remember odd things she’d tell me as a child," Imani replies, moving to what looks like a communications setup in the corner. "She said a smart woman always has somewhere to run. It’s almost like she wanted me to know about the life I was born into, before I even understood it, if that makes sense."

“It makes plenty of sense.”

I watch her work, noting how naturally she moves through the space.

This isn't just a safe house—it's a piece of her family history, a connection to the mother she lost.

"Are you thinking about trying to contact your father?" I ask.

She shakes her head, frustration evident. "No, he said he’d make contact with me first, but…I want to hear from him." She turns from the equipment, and I can see the worry she's trying to hide. "This doesn’t feel right, and it’s getting to me, Brick."

The confirmation of what we already suspected settles between us like a lead weight.

Diego's betrayal goes deeper than just selling us out—it's compromised Mateo's entire organization.

"We're going to figure it out," I tell her, though I'm not sure how. "Once we reach the clubhouse, Amara will have resources we can use."

She nods, but I can see the doubt in her dark eyes.

The woman who impressed me the first moment I met her is showing cracks in her armor.

I find myself studying her more intently—the way she moves with unconscious grace, the subtle scent of her perfume cutting through the dust and sweat of our journey, the intelligence that flashes in her eyes when she's processing information.

Everything about her draws me in, even though I should know better than to get involved with someone I’m on a protection detail with.

"You're staring again," she says without looking at me, unpacking her bag.

"Thinking," I correct, though she's not wrong.

"About what?"

About how you make me forget why I'm here.

About how protecting you has become personal in ways I didn't expect.

About how much I want to taste those lips that always seem to be set in that determined line.

"About how to keep you alive," I say instead.

She pauses in her unpacking, something flickering across her expression. "Is that all I am to you? A mission? A quest? An assignment?"

The question catches me off guard with its directness. "You were," I admit. "When this started."

"And now?"

Now you're the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing on my mind before I sleep.

Now the thought of someone hurting you makes me see red in ways that have nothing to do with the club.

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