Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
“She’s the line between the man I was and the man who walked in here,” I say. “You cut him loose, you keep your money clean where it crosses our road. You don’t, we stop taking calls before dinner. I have to be the man standing in front of you without a leash, then I can’t promise there won’t be blood on your five hundred dollar shoes.”
He looks at me for a long breath like he’s testing the water. Finally he nods like a judge. “Mason is an associate of sorts,” he shares surprising me that he is being honest with us. “I can… find cause to end the contract.”
“No reassignment,” Karma adds. “No cousin. No brother. No another name same face.”
Vinnie laughs softly. “You want a man erased from a system and think you can say that to me out loud?”
“You asked us to be plain,” Tripp states. “We’re being plain. Our territory, our rules.”
Vinnie rocks back on his heels. “What do I get?”
“Peace,” Tank answers. “A quiet stretch of road. Men who will tell certain other men, when asked, that Caputo keeps his house clean where women are concerned. And a continued transport agreement.”
That lands. Reputation is a currency. He weighs it and likes the exchange rate. He uses us enough that he wouldn’t want to risk being cut out.
“You think I care about your roads,” Vinnie retorts. Not a question. A negotiation.
“I think you care about your routes,” Karma challenges. “I think you hate heat. I think you don’t want to hear our names again unless it’s at a wedding where everybody’s unarmed.”
That gets him, the image of men in suits with no holsters, the pretense of normalcy everyone like us gets off on once in a while.
He sighs like a man doing us a favor he will put on a ledger later. “Alright. I’ll make a call. He’s done. If he crawls, it won’t be toward me. But if you’re lying to me about the corners of your business, we’ll have a different conversation.”
“We don’t need your product, your lanes, or your favor,” Tripp reminds him. “We needed your ear. We appreciate having it. We’re done and business will continue as usual between us.”
Vinnie smiles, thin as a blade. “Then we both get to have a good day.” He gestures toward the door with two fingers. It’s not dismissal. It’s ceremony. We nod like men who can play nice.
Oaths and weathering storms. We made both today, and we survived them.
Sixteen
Jami
I start counting again.
Not the hours — those were a battle once — but the days. One tick mark for every sunrise I stay clean.
There’s a whiteboard on the dresser now, next to a vase of fake sunflowers Jenni left behind. I trace each line with a blue marker, neat and deliberate, the color of accountability.
Day nine.
Day ten.
Day eleven.
Each number feels heavier than the last, like they’re bricks I’m trying to stack into something that looks like a life. Every mark is a mix of shame and pride. I’m ashamed to be in this situation, but proud for each day I can survive without using.
Every morning I thank God, Doc Kelly, and Tommy in that order, though, if I’m honest, the order shifts when I see him.
He’s the reason I’m still breathing, still here. And because of that, the guilt clings to me like smoke.
I apologize for everything.
All the time.
At first, Tommy just nods, listening, his thumb drawing slow circles over my palm. Then, as the days stack up, he starts to shake his head, gently but firmly.
“You already said it,” he tells me this morning as I stand in the kitchen, twisting the dish towel in my hands. “You don’t have to keep saying it.”
“I do,” I insist, staring at the floor. “You need to know I’m sorry. For leaving. For lying. For everything.”
He leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching me like I’m a wildfire he doesn’t want to smother but also can’t walk away from. His voice drops low and steady. “I know you’re sorry, Jami. But guilt isn’t living. It’s just dying slower. It’s giving power to the past.”
That hits somewhere deep and sore. “I don’t know how to stop,” I whisper.
“Then let me help.”
He disappears for an hour. I hear the familiar rumble outside, the sound of his bike idling before cutting off.
When he comes back inside, he tosses me a helmet.
“Get dressed,” he says.
I blink at him. “For what?”
“A ride.”
My pulse trips. “Tommy—”
“No thinking,” he interrupts, eyes soft but firm. “No worrying. No guilt. Just feel, baby. You trust me?”
He knows what that question means to someone like me.
And I hate that I hesitate, even for a second, because I do trust him — more than I trust air some days — but fear is still a stubborn ghost.
He doesn’t rush me. He just stands there, waiting.