The deal

[Rowan's POV]

I lay sprawled on my cot, every ache and throb a brutal reminder of just how close I'd come to losing everything today. Too close. I almost got us killed. Almost got Elias killed. Careless. Stupid. I should've seen it coming, should've been ready. But I wasn't.

The Angels struck sooner than I ever expected—hell, I hadn't even been sure they'd come at all. I'd underestimated them, let my guard slip, and they damn near gutted me for it. But it wouldn't happen again. Not ever.

I exhaled sharply, but the motion sent a fresh jolt of pain searing through my side. My breath hitched, and my fingers curled into the thin blanket beneath me. If this wound got infected, I wouldn't have to worry about the Angels finishing the job—fate would take care of that for me. But that was out of my hands now. All I could do was keep it clean, keep breathing, and pray to whatever cruel gods were listening.

I though about the implication of what I did, I didn't want to manipulate them, but they just didn't want to listen.

I was lost in thought, replaying every misstep, every damn second of the ambush, when the door creaked open. My head snapped up, and in stepped Handy. His gait was a little slower than usual, the weight of exhaustion settling on his shoulders like a heavy coat.

Didn't surprise me. He'd done most of the work today—hell, he was the reason I was still breathing.

"Hey, Rowan, how ya doin'?" Handy's voice cut through the quiet as he stepped fully into the room, his one-handed frame casting a shadow against the dim candlelight. His usual smirk wasn't there—just sharp eyes watching me like he was sizing up a mark.

I let out a breath, forcing a smirk of my own. "Never better," I said, voice laced with sarcasm. My side pulsed with pain, reminding me just how much of a lie that was. Today had been a shitshow, one of the worst in my entire career. And yet, here Handy was, visiting me when I should've been left to recover.

Which meant he wanted something.

I shifted slightly, feeling the stiffness in my limbs. "So, Handy, what do you need?" My tone was light, but there was an edge to it, a quiet probe beneath the words.

His face sharpened just a bit, the usual lazy ease in his posture fading. His gaze flicked to the door, then back at me, scanning like he was checking for eavesdroppers.

Then, with deliberate slowness, he lifted his good hand, fingers moving in a small, precise motion. "Do ya know, Chef," he said, voice lowering, "when ya lie, ya pinch your thumb an' index finger. Like this." He demonstrated, rubbing the tips of his fingers together, his expression unreadable.

Bullshit. A lie. I don't do something as amateurish as that.

I kept my expression calm, leaning back slightly against the rough pillow, ignoring the sting in my side. "What an observation, Handy," I said, my tone carrying a subtle warning.

"But I'm not quite sure what you mean." A slow, deliberate pause. Measuring him. He was too damn sharp for his own good. Why couldn't he just follow along, like the others?

Handy didn't so much as blink. "Rowan, don't bullshit me," he said, his voice steady, certain. "Ya was just spinnin' a tale back there."

His certainty sent a slow, crawling unease down my spine. Handy had always been the backbone of our little group, the kind of man who saw things others missed, but now, that perceptiveness was turned on me. And I didn't like it.

I exhaled, letting the tension ease from my shoulders, or at least pretending to. If I couldn't make him believe, I could at least make him go along with it. "Alright, Handy. You win." I let my voice drop just enough to sound reluctant, like a man confessing a harmless secret. "They didn't identify themselves, but I saw the tattoo on one of 'em. I just wanted it to sound more certain that it was them, you know?"

I shrugged slightly, wincing as the movement tugged at my wound. "Got to keep the others from second-guessing. Can't afford hesitation."

Handy tilted his head slightly, watching me in that way he did when he was picking apart a story. "Really, Rowan?" he drawled, voice thoughtful, yet carrying that undercurrent of knowing. "That's interestin'. Real interestin'."

He didn't believe me. Not for a second.

Well, he had to.

"Handy, I don't know what you think you know," I said, letting my voice firm up, like I was drawing a line. "But it was really them. I'm a hundred percent sure—"

Before I could finish, Handy cut me off, his voice as steady as ever. "Look, Rowan, I don't give a shit 'bout ya lyin' or whatever scheme ya got brewin'. Hell, I'll even back ya up. But my support ain't somethin' ya just receive—it's somethin' ya gotta win over." He shifted his weight slightly, his lone hand resting against his belt. "So let me propose sometin'." His eyes locked onto mine, sharp, calculating. "Leave those two outta this. Alicia and Elias. They don't belong in whatever storm ya plannin' to stir. If ya can promise me that… well, maybe we got ourselves a deal."

I exhaled through my nose, considering him. The way he said it, calm and level, told me there was no room for argument. Handy wasn't one for sentiment, But when it concerned Alicia, he was as chivalrous as a knight. 

So, I gave him the answer he wanted. "Oh… of course, man," I said, forcing just the right amount of sincerity into my voice. "They're just kids. I ain't about to drag them into this mess." I let my expression shift, just a little, enough to look appreciative. "But thanks, Handy. Having your support means a lot more than from the others." I leaned back slightly, trying to sell it, trying to make him feel like he was the deciding factor, the one who mattered most.

He didn't so much as blink. "Not workin', Rowan." His voice was flat, unimpressed.

I huffed a quiet laugh, shaking my head. Should've known better than to think I could butter him up. Handy saw through bullshit like it was written in big bold letters.

My tone dropped, serious now. "Alright, listen. I need something from you." I leveled my gaze at him, making sure he understood this wasn't just some idle request. "Two days from now, pick up a couple of your boys. We're gonna go get my get-back for today." My jaw tightened. "You in?"

"Don't ya need to heal a bit, boy?" Handy asked, cocking his head slightly, his voice edged with something between skepticism and amusement.

"Healing?" I scoffed, my tone like steel. "That can wait. But this?" I leaned forward, ignoring the sharp pull of pain in my side. "This cannot."

He studied me for a long moment, his good hand tapping idly against his belt. Then, with a slow nod, he met my gaze. "Alright," he said, exhaling through his nose. "But if infection packs ya up, don't be expectin' me to pay for the funeral." He let out a low chuckle, the sound bouncing off the walls.

I smirked, just a little. "Didn't take you for the sentimental type, Handy."

He rolled his eyes before his expression settled back into something more serious. "How many ya need?"

"Two should be enough," I said, weighing it in my mind. "Maybe three, if they're weak."

That earned me an incredulous look. Handy scoffed, crossing his arms. "Weak?" His voice carried a hint of offense. "Ain't none of my guys weak."

I exhaled through my nose, unimpressed. "Handy," I said, my tone sharpening. "I need killers. Not some street rats who barely know how to hold a knife."

His expression darkened just slightly, but he said nothing. That was fine. He'd bring me the right ones.

Handy nodded, his usual nonchalance settling back into place. "Alright, what's the plan, Chef?" His voice was steady, unreadable, like always.

I let out a slow breath, pressing a hand against my side as a dull ache flared beneath my ribs. "I'll tell you," I said, meeting his gaze. "But don't say a word to the others until you've got your guys lined up."

He didn't so much as blink. "No problem. Go on."

I leaned forward slightly, voice lowering just enough to make sure only he could hear. "Every Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday, four of the Angel boys push Rock behind Henry's pub. In two days, we hit them. Quick, clean. I want them to suspect it was us—but not know for sure."

Handy's brow twitched slightly, a sign he was listening close.

"We leave just enough behind," I continued, "a whisper, a shadow—enough to bait them, to make them come sniffing around here, right where we want them. Handy, this will be the official declaration of the war, we can't fuck it up, you hear me?"

"Aye, Chef," he said, voice steady as ever. No hesitation, no question—just acceptance.

I held his gaze, my own cold, calculating. His? Indifferent, unreadable, like a man who'd seen too much and decided nothing was worth the trouble of reacting anymore.

What a perfect duo.