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"I don't know if that's a story for a lady," he snickers in his rough-as-gravel voice. I watch her closely. Waiting for it. The hesitation. The regret. The realization that maybe she stepped into something she doesn't understand. It doesn't come. She shrugs slightly. Unbothered.

"I'm sure I've heard worse," she states simply. She's not pretending. This isn't bravado. She means it.

Brick studies her again. Longer this time. Then a slow, amused smirk pulls at his mouth.

"Well," he mutters, still looking at me, "she's different."

Yeah. That's one way to put it. I don't respond. I can't. Because right now, I'm not watching Brick. I'm watching her. And realizing I was right. She's not out of her depth here. Not the way I first thought she'd be. Not the way I hoped. No, she's stepping into it. Like she belongs. And that? That scares me more than anything I'll see in this room today.

Or so I thought. Until we step into the room where two men are tied to chairs in the center. My men didn't take it easy on them. Blood mats their hair. Their faces are swollen, barely recognizable. One's lip is split clean down the middle. The other is missing a few teeth already. Not good enough.

"Are these the men who thought they could kidnap my mother?" Audra doesn't ask, she demands. Her voice is steady. Too steady. Brick grunts in confirmation. Before I can say a word, she steps forward.

Slap.

The crack echoes sharply across the room. The first man's head jerks sideways. Then she turns.Slap. The second one takes it. Her hand trembles slightly when she pulls it back. I'm willing to bet it's not from weakness but adrenaline.

"Why did you try to take my mom?" she demands.

The men exchange a look. And then, they laugh. Actually fucking laugh. One of them lifts his swollen gaze toward me.

"Is that all you have, Jefe?" he spits, blood dripping from his mouth. "Some gringa slapping us?"

I take a step forward. "Enough."

The word lands heavy. Final. It's not a suggestion. It's an order. But before I can reach her, Brick moves. His arm comes out. Blocking me. Blocking me! For a split second, the room stills. Because that? That doesn't happen. Not to me. Not ever. Slowly, I turn my head. Look at him. The kind of look that's ended men. Brick doesn't flinch. Doesn't move his arm. Doesn't even pretend to.

"Wait." The word is a hiss.

Not challenging. Not disrespectful. But not backing down either. A muscle ticks. He's walking a very fine line, and he knows it. The room feels it too. Every man in here knows exactly how close this is to going very, very wrong. I take a step closerto him. Not around him. Into him. Close enough that most men would fold.

"Move," I say quietly.

Brick's eyes flick toward Audra for half a second. Then back to me. He shakes his head. "She's not done."

He's choosing every word like it might be his last, which they might very well be if he doesn't move. But then I follow his gaze. My eyes lock on her. The shake in her hands. The fury. The grief bleeding through it. The way she's standing there, on the edge of a line she won't be able to uncross. My chest constricts.

Fuck.

He's right.

I exhale slowly through my nose before I step back. Just one step. But it's enough. A decision. A concession. The room breathes again. Barely. Brick's arm drops. Just like that. Because he got what he wanted. And he knows better than to push his luck any further.

Audra doesn't look at me. She looks around. Her gaze lands on the table against the wall where our tools have been laid out. Clean. Precise. Surgical.

She walks toward them. And I force myself to stand still.

"Are these what they used on Pete?" she asks quietly.

"Audra," I warn.

She picks up a pair of cutters. Tests them. The metal clicks once. Twice. The sound slices through the room.

"Careful, gringa," one of the men sneers. "You'll get your pretty outfit bloody."

I warn again, "Audra?—"

She doesn't look at me. Doesn't even acknowledge I spoke. She steps back toward the chair. Raises the cutters. And presses them against the man's finger. Everything slows. The man's smirk falters. Just a fraction. When he realizes her intent, sweat beads instantly along his temple.