Chapter 2

“Dae,” Maeve starts.

“Shh.” I want to hear what’s said. The regulators quiet down. Delia must have approached the tables, and then I hear her low voice telling them the daily specials, probably passing out menus and trying to avoid their hands.

Maeve bites her lip, stirs the soup, and asks again, “Should I go, too?”

Out in the main room, Delia’s voice rises in anger amid wicked laughter.

“Stay here,” I tell the younger girl as I stand. The chair scrapes out behind me and she jumps back, startled. “It’s okay.” I don’t quite believe that myself. Pushing through the swinging door, I repeat, “You stay here.”

There are seven regulators altogether, a sordid and mean-spirited group, taking up two of the largest tables along the windows by the exit. Beyond the glass I see their bikes lined up single file, gleaming in the floodlights that illuminate the small stretch of concrete I like to call a parking lot. We’ll not have another customer tonight with those hogs out there. Anyone passing will just keep on going by. Already the couple we had sipping coffee at the bar stands by the register, anxious to pay their bill and leave. An older woman and her husband—neither of them look at the regulators.

I watch the men from the corner of my eye as I ring up the coffee. They don’t wear McBane’s signature bandannas and I’ve never seen them around here before, but that doesn’t mean anything. A rival gang, then, or someone new looking to score this turf. That means fights in the street, a new reign of terror until McBane backs down or manages to run these punks out. I’m not looking forward to this already.

One regulator stretches along his side of the booth, across from two of his men, and I assume he’s their leader. He’s a young kid, no more than a boy, really—Delia’s age, if that. But there’s a hard look about him, his eyes are like flint in his stony face, and a smattering of healed scratches crisscross his nose like freckles. His hair is buzzed down to just a hint of darkness that clings to his scalp, and as he drinks the water Delia’s set before him, I notice his knuckles, battered and scraped. He glances at me with mercurial eyes that look almost silver from here.

I look away before he wants to start something. Just go,I pray.

When I dare to glance back at him, he’s still watching me, and he’s got that look on his face that I recognize all too well. I see it every time McBane rides up in here looking to score. It’s a hunger, a lust that has nothing to do with Delia and everything to do with me.

Dread curls in the pit of my stomach and I tell myself I’m going to ignore it, pretend I don’t notice the weight of his gaze on me as I wipe down the counter. I keep an eye on Delia; she’s handling herself very well, asking each man for his order and not rising to any of their barbed comments or implied threats. When one of the bastards flips through the menu and asks where she’s listed on the thing, I twist the towel in my hand to curb the anger that eats at me inside.

She catches my eye and I can see how frightened she is. We’re all terrified here; the sooner these regulators leave, the better. It’s okay,I want to tell her, even though it’s not. Instead, I just nod her way and that’s enough to make her turn back to the customers—at least she knows I’m here.

The next table’s worse, the one with the guy I’m assuming runs this show. He doesn’t say anything to her—I don’t expect him to, he’s the type to corner me if I let him, she’s safe as far as he’s concerned—but the men he’s with, they scare me. The one on the end’s as big as a bear, burly and gruff, lank hair hiding his eyes and a foul mouth beneath

Before she can answer, he has a hand on her waist and he’s pulling her into his lap, a flurry of flailing arms and kicking legs. “Let me go!” she cries, dropping her order pad to the floor.

The more she struggles, the more the regulators laugh, they think this is funny, even the one by himself, he’s got a smile on his face and he’s watching me again, waiting to see what I’m going to do. I’m wondering the same thing. “Dae—”

I come around the counter, wiping my hands on my apron. Unarmed, of course—this is my place, I don’t carry weapons. I’m not one of them.I’m not much to look at, I’ve got muscles but they’re from lifting stock and I wouldn’t know how to throw a punch if my life depended on it, but it’s not me at stake here, it’s her, and I promised I’d not let them touch her. I swore I’d watch out for her, it was the last thing I told my da, I’d be the big brother and keep her safe. That’s the only

Silence. It’s shock value I’m riding on here, and the few moments it takes for the lug to notice me is enough for her to wriggle free from his grip. Straightening her skirts, she cowers behind me, her hands on my back.