Chapter 2

The words landed on the concrete and lay there, and Ronan didn't move.

He stood with the boy's hand wrapped around his fingers, the small weight of Toby pressed against his right leg, and looked across the garage at the man who had spoken. Dane had stepped forward when Ronan lifted the boy out — two steps, maybe three — and now he stood between the sidecar and the long table, his black silk shirt open at the collar, his gold chain bright under the work-lights, his pale grey eyes flat and careful.

Ronan had seen that look before. It was the look of a man who was used to being the most dangerous person in the room, and who didn't like discovering he might not be.

"I said," Dane repeated, slower this time, "step off. Family business."

Ronan looked down at the boy, then back at Dane. His voice came from his chest, graveled and even.

"He's not freight."

Two words. Three heartbeats of silence.

Then Kendall Boyd moved.

He came around the side of the table, sandy hair catching the light, silver rings glinting on both hands, his maroon hoodie dark over the black leather vest. He was fast and he was loud, and he talked before he thought — that was Kendall's whole problem in life, the reason he'd never been more than half a step behind Dane, the reason he'd been the one to half-step forward earlier and then walk back into the silence.

"Hey," Kendall said, hands up, palms open, playing peacemaker the way he played everything — too fast, too loud. "Hey, man, let's just — you don't know the situation here. Dane's the kid's father. You walked in late. You don't know what's —"

"I know what I saw."

Kendall's mouth kept moving for half a second before the words caught up with him. He looked at Ronan, then at Dane, then at the boy still pressed against Ronan's leg with one hand wrapped around two scarred fingers.

"What you saw," Kendall said, "was a — a disciplinary thing. A — Dane's raising the kid his way, you don't just walk in —"

"Is that what you tell yourself?"