Page 93 of Brick's Retribution

"You see a girl who looks fourteen on the auction block," he says calmly. "What's your expression?"

I force my face into bored interest. "Calculating profit margins."

"Better. Brick, you recognize one of the pregnant women as someone from Lashes's neighborhood. Your reaction?"

Brick's jaw tightens for just a moment before smoothing into indifference. "Mild curiosity about her background. Nothing more."

"Again," Doom orders. "Until it's perfect."

We drill responses until our faces ache from holding neutral expressions.

Until I can hear about selling children without flinching.

Until Brick can discuss pregnant women like merchandise without his hands forming fists.

It's soul-crushing to even be doing this, but necessary.

"Good," Doom finally says. "Now let's work on your cover dynamic."

He has us run through our buyer-and-bodyguard routine, critiquing everything from our body language to our speaking patterns.

"Imani, you're too soft with him. You're a cartel princess—he's the hired help. Act like it."

"Brick, stop hovering like a worried boyfriend. You're a professional. Your protection is efficient, not emotional."

By the time we break for lunch, we're exhausted but I don’t think anyone will assume we’re together.

We look like we’re playing the part: princess and protector.

"That was horrible," I mutter, slumping against Brick in the hallway.

"But we needed to do it. Doom did a good job throwing some crazy shit at us," he replies, though I can see the strain in his eyes.

We're heading to the kitchen to grab food when Razor comes to find us. "Conference room. One of Alejandro's men is here with intel you’re both gonna wanna hear."

The conference room is crowded—Amara, Dante, Razor, Doom, and a man I don't recognize but has to work for my godfather.

"SeñoritaTorres," he greets me respectfully. "I am Joaquin. Your godfather sends his regards."

I don’t bother with the pleasantries. "What have you learned?"

Joaquin pulls out a tablet, swiping to reveal surveillance photos. "We located Diego in Juárez yesterday. He was meeting with known associates of the trafficking ring."

My breath catches as I recognize the restaurant in the photos—one of my father's favorite spots for sensitive meetings.

The irony of Diego using it for his betrayal burns.

"This image was taken from across the street," Joaquin continues, swiping to the next photo.

My heart stops.

There, visible through the restaurant window, is my father.

He's seated at a corner table, but something's wrong.

His posture is too rigid, his expression blank in a way I've never seen.

"He's drugged," I whisper, my hands trembling as I zoom in on his face.

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