Chapter 132 The Jagged Edge
A few blocks from Eliza’s college, the cafe smelled of home—burnt espresso and damp wool—a stark contrast to the sterile, cedar-scented penthouse. I huddled in a corner booth, my back to the wall. Two tables over, Marcus pretended to read the news, but his eyes never stopped scanning. He was a constant, heavy reminder of my missing anonymity.
"You're twitchy," Eliza noted, sliding into the booth. She looked exhausted, dropping her heavy bag with a thud that caught Marcus's eye. "You've checked the door six times. Is life with a Salvatore that bad, or should I get you some pepper spray?"
I forced a smile, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand. Her skin was warm, a contrast to the chill I’d been carrying since I left the penthouse. "I’m fine. Just... a lot of adjustments. I'm not used to the quiet yet. How are the prep courses going?"
"Math is still a language spoken only by demons, but I’m passing," she sighed, pulling a stray hair back from her face. Her expression softened, turning serious as she lowered her voice. "Grace keeps asking when 'The Bear' is coming back for dinner. I think she likes him more than she likes me at this point."
"He’ll be there tonight," I promised, though the mention of the "The Bear" made my heart ache with a sudden, sharp longing for the faded carpet. "He hasn't missed a night yet. He’s surprisingly stubborn about his schedule."
We talked for twenty minutes, gossiping about professors and a hypothetical beach trip we’d never afford. For a moment, I was just a girl worrying about grocery coupons instead of bloodline debts. I could almost forget my mother’s "pedigree" was being dissected by a woman who saw me as an infection. Then the door chimed, and the air turned thin. I didn't have to look up to know who it was. The man wove through the tables with a loose, predatory gait—a jagged blade among dull butter knives. Black ink climbed his neck to his hairline, and piercings glinted under the fluorescent lights. He looked like he was made of scrap metal and bad intentions.
He stopped at our table, a slow, knowing grin spreading across his face, revealing a silver cap on one of his teeth.
"Well, if it isn't the pride of the neighborhood," he said. His voice was like gravel under a heavy boot. "And Eliza. You still hitting those books, or are you actually going to do something with your life?"
Eliza froze, her coffee cup halfway to her lips. Her eyes went wide, flickering with a recognition that was steeped in old, dark memories of street corners and sirens. "Duane? Duane Feeks?"
"In the flesh. Mostly," he said, pulling a chair from the neighboring table and spinning it around to sit backward, right at the edge of our booth. He didn't ask for permission; he simply occupied the space, his presence crowding out the warmth of our conversation.
"My god," Eliza breathed. "I haven't seen you since... what, the tenth grade? Everyone said you went dark. People said you were in Jersey, or locked up, or worse."
"People say a lot of things when they’re bored and broke," Duane replied, his eyes shifting to me. They were sharp, intelligent, and entirely void of the warmth I had just been sharing with Eliza. He looked at me with a protective, possessive tilt of his head. "Mila. You’re looking... expensive. That’s a nice coat. Real wool? Must be nice to finally be able to stay warm."
"Duane," I said, my voice steady despite my hammering pulse. Two tables away, Marcus stood, hand shifting toward his jacket. I caught his eye with a microscopic shake of my head—not here, not with Eliza. "It’s been a long time."
"Too long," Duane agreed. He rested his hand on the table, ink-faded knuckles stark against the wood. "Heard you’re moving up. Alverstone. Big dreams, bigger friends. I always knew you had that 'something.' The kind of thing people want to keep."
"We were leaving," Eliza stammered, gathering her things with trembling hands. She knew his history better than I did—the back-alley legend who’d vanished into the Jersey syndicates.
"What’s the rush? I'm just catching up with an old friend," Duane asked, his grin widening, though it didn't reach his eyes. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping into a chilling, intimate whisper that bypassed Eliza entirely and hit me like a physical blow. "I just wanted to make sure you were settling in okay. That penthouse on 57th... it’s a long way from the drafty windows and the broken radiators in the old block, isn't it? Must be hard to sleep with all that glass. Makes you feel like everyone can see in."
The blood drained from my face. I hadn't told anyone the address. Not even the Joneses. Nate had been obsessed with keeping the location of his private residence off any public record.
"How do you know where I'm staying?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
Duane tilted his head, a silver barbell in his ear catching the light. "I’ve been watching, little sister. I’ve been watching since you were a kid in the kitchen, and I’m watching now. You can put a bird in a glass cage, but that doesn't mean the hawks stop circling. Nate Salvatore thinks he can build a wall high enough to keep the past out, but the past has a way of climbing. It doesn't need a key."
He stood up then, the chair screeching against the floor like a dying animal. He looked at Marcus, who was now only five feet away and radiating a clear, violent intent, and gave him a mocking, two-finger salute—the exact same gesture the bald man had given me under the oak tree.
"Tell your billionaire to keep the lights on," Duane said, looking back at me with a look that was almost pitying. "The Stone family debt is a long book, Mila. And I’m just here to make sure no one skips the final chapter. See you around the neighborhood."
He turned and walked out, the bell above the door chiming behind him with a cheerful, rhythmic sound that felt like a mockery. Eliza was staring at me, her face ashen, her hands clutching her backpack as if it were a shield.
"Mila," she whispered, her voice cracking. "What the hell was that? Duane Feeks... he’s not just some guy from the block. My dad used to say the Feeks family were the ones who handled the things the police wouldn't touch. Who is he working for?"
I couldn't answer her. My throat felt like it was closing up, the scent of cedar from Nate’s shirt—now a phantom memory—the only thing keeping me from spiraling. I was staring at the spot on the table where Duane’s hand had been. The "Glass Cage" hadn't just been breached; the windows were shattered. Duane wasn't just a ghost; he was a scout.
I stood up, my legs feeling like lead. "We have to go, Eliza. Now."