Adrian lifts the phone and greets me with a wide, bright smile that does not reach his eyes. It is the kind of smile he used to practice in mirrors as a teenager, polished and charming. Manufactured. He tilts his head slightly, letting the light catch the bruise on his cheek as if it is a badge of honor rather than the result of violence.
“Damian,” he says warmly, as if nothing in our lives has changed. As if Elena never testified. As if I never saw the reports or the settlements. As if he is still the younger brother I was supposed to protect. “You came. I knew you would.”
I sit slowly, lifting the phone to my ear. His smile widens, pleased by what he thinks is proof of his influence. The familiarity of his tone scratches at old instincts, the ones that used to drag me into cleaning up
