Damon woke at dawn. His body was filled with pain.He lay on the couch for thirty minutes, staring at the water stain on the ceiling. His ribs clicked with every breath. His knuckles had swollen overnight. His right eye was half-closed from a bruise he didn't remember getting. He sat up slowly. One inch at a time. His spine cracked in three places. The envelopes were still under the couch cushion. Five thousand dollars. He checked twice. Three times. The money was still there. Still real. He showered. Cold water only. Hot water made the swelling worse. He stood under the spray until his skin turned red and his muscles stopped shaking. Then he dressed. Clean jeans. A black button-down shirt. The only nice clothes he owned. They were two sizes too big now. He had lost weight. Too much weight. His face was gaunt. His cheekbones stuck out. He looked like a man who had been through war. Because he had.""""" """"" """" Elaine Park's office was downtown. Not the fancy downtown

Sunday morning. Damon woke to the smell of coffee.For a moment, he forgot where he was. Forgot the broken ribs. The empty apartment. The daughter who wasn't there. For just a second, he thought he was back in the old life. Olivia making coffee in the kitchen. Lucy watching cartoons in the living room.Then the pain hit. His ribs screamed. His knuckles throbbed. His right eye was still swollen shut.The old life was dead.Damon sat up slowly. One inch at a time. His spine cracked. His back ached. He looked at his phone.Ten missed calls. All from the same number.Tommy Hart.Damon stared at the name. Tommy had worked with him at the warehouse. Same shifts. Same broken dreams. Same empty pockets. They had been friends. Not close. But real. The kind of friends who drank cheap beer together and complained about their bosses and never asked too many questions.Damon hadn't spoken to Tommy since Olivia died.He called back.Tommy answered on the first ring. "Corso? Damn, man. I've been cal

Damon met Leo at a diner on the south side of the city.The place was called Helen's. Old. Greasy. The kind of diner where the coffee was always burnt and the waitresses called everyone "hon." Leo sat in the back booth, nursing a cup of black coffee. He looked up when Damon walked in. His sharp eyes scanned the room behind Damon. Checking. Always checking."You look worse than last time," Leo said."I feel better.""You're lying.""A little."Damon slid into the booth across from Leo. His ribs screamed. He ignored them. He pulled the envelope from his jacket pocket. Eight hundred dollars. Cash. He slid it across the table.Leo didn't touch it immediately. He looked at the envelope. Then at Damon's face. The swollen eye. The bruised cheek. The fresh cuts on his knuckles."How many fights have you had now?" Leo asked."Five.""Won all five?""Yes."Leo shook his head. "That's not sustainable. Eventually you'll lose. Eventually your body will give out. And then what?""Then I'll have eno

Cruz lived across town in a neighborhood that used to be nice.Now the houses were run-down. Yards overgrown. Cars on blocks. The American dream had died here years ago, and no one had bothered to bury it.Damon found the address Frank had given him. A small house at the end of a dead-end street. Blue paint peeling. A chain-link fence with a gate that hung crooked. In the backyard, visible through the fence, was a boxing ring. Old. Rusted. But still standing.He knocked on the front door. No answer. He knocked again. Louder.The door opened.The man standing in the doorway was shorter than Damon expected. Five-foot-seven. Maybe five-eight. Bald. Dark skin. A scar ran across his left eyebrow where stitches had once been. His eyes were sharp and brown and missed nothing.He was shirtless. His body was a map of old damage. Scars on his ribs. Scars on his knuckles. A healed gash on his stomach that looked like a knife wound."You Corso?" the man asked."Yes.""Frank said you'd come. Took

The Dravens didn't wait long. Damon was walking back to Cruz's house when his phone buzzed. Unknown number. He almost ignored it. Almost. But something made him answer. "Corso," he said. "Mr. Corso." The voice was familiar. Cold. Polished. Cassian Draven. "I hope I'm not interrupting your... training." Damon stopped walking. His jaw tightened. "What do you want?" "To talk. Man to man. About Lucy." "Lucy is my daughter. Not yours. Not your parents. Mine." "She's a Draven," Cassian said. "She always has been. You were just borrowing her." Damon's hand shook. He forced it steady. "Is there a point to this call, or are you just practicing being worthless?" A pause. Cassian wasn't used to being spoken to like that. "The court date is in sixteen days," Cassian said. "My parents are feeling generous. They're willing to offer you a deal." "I don't want a deal. I want my daughter." "Your daughter is safe. Happy. Well-fed. She has her own room now. Her own clothes. Her own school." C