Jericho cuts off whatever he’s whispering to his brother and pivots toward me, one eyebrow winging up like I’m an i***t. It takes every ounce of discipline not to wipe that trust-fund smirk off his face. Everyone in this city knows it’s risky to cross him, but nobody says the quiet part out loud: the bastard never bled for the gold on his fingers. He’s a rich kid playing gangster—unlike his brother Nathan, who’s a professional killer.
If he’s here to make a deal, it’s only because of the paper our fathers signed before this city went to war—before mine took a bullet to the skull and the Browns crept over our streets like ivy. I’ve had to spit teeth to make Jericho honor those old promises. He knows damn well that if he props me up, he might be feeding a new monster. But for now, his net k
