Page 47 of Brick's Retribution

She's not just asking about protection—she's asking about something deeper, more personal.

"Yeah," I say quietly. "I do."

She searches my eyes, looking for something.

Whatever she finds there seems to satisfy her, because she relaxes against me again.

"Tell me about your family," she says after a while. "What happened to your father?"

The subject I never talk about, the wound I keep buried.

But something about the darkness, about holding her in my arms while she shares her pain, makes me want to tell her.

"Armed robbery," I say finally. "Fifteen years ago. He held up a liquor store to get money for food and rent."

"He was desperate?"

"Broke, no job, debt collectors threatening the family. He saw it as his only option." I can still remember that night—the police at the door, my mother's screams, the way my world changed in a matter of minutes. "Got fifteen to twenty-five. Could be out in a few more years if he behaves himself."

"Have you seen him? Since he went in?"

I shake my head. "He writes letters. I keep them, but I've never opened them. Don't know what he could say that would make any difference."

Her fingers trace patterns on my chest as she thinks about what I’ve said. "Maybe he wants to explain. Tell you why he did it."

"I know why he did it. Doesn't change what happened after."

"What happened to your mother?"

The harder question.

The one that explains why I became the club's medic, why I'm driven to fix what's broken.

"She fell apart," I say simply. "Started drinking, then pills, then harder stuff. I learned to take care of her—basic medical stuff, managing her medications, keeping her functional. By the time I was sixteen, I was more of a parent than a child."

"That's why you became a medic."

"Partly. Also because I was good at it. Turns out I have a talent for putting people back together." I look down at her, noting how right she feels in my arms. "What about you? Ever think about going back to medicine?"

"Sometimes. But my father needs me in the business side. Someone he can trust to handle the legitimate operations."

"Is that what you want? Or is it what he wants?"

She's quiet for so long I think she might not answer. "I don't know anymore. For so long, I've defined myself by what the family needs, what my mother would have wanted. I'm not sure who I am outside of that."

"You're brilliant," I tell her. "Brave, strategic, tougher than most men I know. You could be anything you wanted to be."

She lifts her head to look at me again, something vulnerable in her expression. "You see me differently than most people do."

"How do most people see you?"

"Mateo Torres's daughter. A valuable asset. A potential threat. A prize to be won or a target to be eliminated." She pauses. "You're the first person in a long time to see me as just... me."

The admission hits me harder than it should.

This woman, who has everything money can buy, is starved for something as simple as being seen for who she is rather than what she represents.

"You're not just anything to me," I say quietly.

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