Merchant Venice Beach / Season 1, Episode 3
The Price of Salt
Episode 3: The Price of Salt
The air in the tiny apartment above the boardwalk shop feels thick, like it’s been holding its breath too long. Mira’s words hang between her and Sol, sharp and jagged, a shard of glass catching the dim light from the single bulb overhead. “Somethin’ we could trade. Not cash, but... close enough. If Darius bites.” Her voice is low, almost a hiss, her fingers drumming on the scarred wooden table as if she’s already playing out the deal in her head. Sol sits across from her, his jaw tight, the bruise from last night’s fight blooming purple under his left eye. The taste of copper still lingers on his tongue, a reminder of how close he came to losing more than just a tooth on that pier.
“Trade what, exactly?” His tone is heavy, skeptical, each word dragged out like it’s pulling against a current. He leans back in the creaking chair, arms crossed over his chest, the faded ink of a ship’s anchor peeking out from under his rolled-up sleeve. The room smells of stale coffee and salt air, the ocean’s breath seeping through the cracked window. Outside, the Venice Beach boardwalk hums with its usual chaos—rollerblades scraping concrete, a busker’s off-key guitar, the shouts of vendors hawking overpriced sunglasses. But in here, it’s just the two of them, and the weight of whatever Mira’s cooking up.
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she stands, pacing to the window, her bare feet scuffing against the gritty floor. Her tank top clings to her shoulders, damp with sweat from the late afternoon heat, and her hair’s a mess of dark curls tied back with a rubber band. She stares out at the strip of beach visible between the buildings, where the sun’s starting to dip, painting the waves in streaks of gold and blood. “You ever think about what people want most?” she asks, not turning around. “Not money, not really. It’s... somethin’ deeper. Somethin’ they can’t just buy off a shelf.”
Sol snorts, rubbing a hand over the stubble on his chin. “Yeah, sure. Love, redemption, all that poetic crap. What’s your point, Mira? Darius ain’t runnin’ a therapy session. He’s a shark, and he’s already got his teeth in us for thirty grand. You think he’s gonna trade for a hug?”
She spins on her heel, her eyes flashing, bright and dangerous. “No, dumbass. I’m talkin’ about leverage. Power. The kinda thing he can’t get anywhere else.” She steps closer, leaning down so her hands brace on the table, her face just inches from his. Her breath smells faintly of the cheap mint gum she’s always chewing. “I’ve been watchin’ him, Sol. Down on the boardwalk, the way he moves, the way he talks. He’s not just after cash. He wants control. He wants to own people. And I think I know how to give him that—or at least make him think he’s got it.”
Sol’s brow furrows, the unease in his gut twisting tighter. He doesn’t like where this is going, not one bit. “Mira, if this is some half-baked con, you better think twice. Darius ain’t the type to play games. You saw what his boys did to me last night. Next time, it won’t be just a black eye. They’ll carve me up like a damn Thanksgiving turkey.”
She straightens, crossing her arms, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Oh, ye of little faith. I’m not sayin’ we lie to him. I’m sayin’ we offer him somethin’ real. Somethin’ he can use. And in return, he wipes the slate clean. No more debt, no more late-night visits from his goons. We walk away.”
He stares at her, searching her face for a crack, some hint she’s bluffing. But her gaze is steady, unyielding, like she’s already made up her mind. The room feels smaller now, the walls pressing in with the weight of what she’s not saying. “What exactly are we offerin’?” he asks finally, his voice quieter now, almost a whisper.
Mira hesitates, just for a split second, and that’s when he knows it’s bad. Whatever she’s got in her head, it’s not just risky—it’s a grenade with the pin half-pulled. She licks her lips, glances at the door like she’s making sure no one’s listening, then leans in close again. “There’s a guy. Someone Darius has been tryin’ to get a hold of for months. Word is, this guy’s got dirt on half the city—cops, politicians, even some of the cartels runnin’ through here. Darius wants him bad, but the guy’s a ghost. No one knows where he is. Except... I might.”
Sol blinks, his mouth opening, then closing again. The hum of the boardwalk outside fades to a dull buzz in his ears. “You might? Mira, what the hell does that mean? Either you know or you don’t. And if you do, how? You’ve been slingin’ knockoff Ray-Bans and tarot readings down there, not playin’ spy.”
She waves a hand, dismissive, but there’s a flicker of something in her eyes—nerves, maybe, or guilt. “I hear things, okay? People talk when they think you’re nobody. A couple weeks back, I was settin’ up my table near Muscle Beach, and I overheard some guys—runners for one of the smaller crews. They were talkin’ about this dude, callin’ him ‘the Broker.’ Said he’s got a safehouse somewhere off Lincoln, behind one of the old dispensaries. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but after last night, after seein’ you gettin’ your face rearranged... I started puttin’ pieces together.”
Sol leans forward, elbows on the table, his hands clenching into fists. The ache in his jaw pulses with every word. “So, what, you wanna sell this Broker guy out to Darius? Hand him over on a silver platter? Mira, that’s not just playin’ with fire—that’s dousin’ yourself in gasoline and lightin’ a match. If this guy’s as connected as you say, and he finds out we ratted him, we’re dead. Worse than dead.”
“I’m not sayin’ we give him up for real,” she snaps, her voice rising, then catching herself and dropping back to a hiss. “I’m sayin’ we use the info as a bargaining chip. We tell Darius we’ve got a lead, but we need time to pin it down. Buy ourselves a couple weeks, maybe more. In the meantime, we figure out a way to get the money—or get outta town. Either way, it keeps his dogs off your back.”
He shakes his head, slow and deliberate, the chair groaning under his weight as he leans back again. “You’re assumin’ Darius is gonna buy that. You’re assumin’ he’s gonna trust us long enough to give us breathin’ room. What if he doesn’t? What if he decides to squeeze us harder, make us prove it right then and there? Or worse, what if he already knows where this Broker guy is, and he figures out we’re feedin’ him old news? Then what?”
Mira’s smirk fades, her lips pressing into a thin line. She turns back to the window, her shoulders tense, fingers gripping the sill. The sun’s lower now, the light casting long shadows across the floor, turning the room into a maze of gold and gray. “Then we’re screwed either way,” she mutters, almost to herself. “But sittin’ here, waitin’ for him to come for us again? That’s not an option. I’m not watchin’ you get beat down—or worse—because we didn’t try somethin’.”
The silence stretches out, heavy and sour, broken only by the distant crash of waves and the rhythmic thump of a street performer’s drum. Sol stares at the table, at the empty coffee mug in front of him, the chip in its rim like a tiny, mocking grin. He wants to argue, to tell her this is insane, that they should just pack a bag and run, disappear into the sprawl of LA or beyond. But he knows she’s right about one thing: waiting isn’t an option. Darius doesn’t forget, and he doesn’t forgive. That thirty grand isn’t just a number on a ledger—it’s a chain around their necks, tightening every day.
“Alright,” he says at last, his voice rough, like gravel. “Let’s say we do this. We go to Darius, dangle this Broker guy in front of him. What’s the play? How do we even get close without him smellin’ a setup?”
Mira turns, a spark of relief in her eyes, though her face stays hard. “We don’t go to him. Not yet. First, we confirm the intel. Make sure there’s somethin’ to the rumor I heard. If there’s nothin’ there, we scrap the plan, figure somethin’ else out. If there is... we got a card to play. But we do it smart. No rushin’ in blind.”
Sol nods slowly, though the knot in his stomach doesn’t loosen. “And how do we confirm it? You gonna stroll up to Lincoln and knock on every door ‘til you find a safehouse?”
She grins now, a real one, sharp and a little wild. “Not quite. I got a guy. Old friend from back in the day, before I landed here. He’s... connected, let’s say. If anyone knows about a ghost like the Broker, it’s him. We meet up, feel him out. See what he’s heard.”
Sol raises an eyebrow, the bruise on his face throbbing as he squints at her. “An old friend, huh? Why do I get the feelin’ this friend ain’t exactly the friendly type?”
Mira’s grin doesn’t waver, but there’s a shadow behind it, something she’s not saying. “You’ll see. Just trust me, okay? For once.”
He doesn’t answer, just looks at her, the weight of that word—trust—hanging between them like a blade. Outside, the boardwalk noise swells for a moment, a burst of laughter and a shout, before fading back into the hum of dusk. The room grows darker, the shadows deeper, and Sol knows, down to his bones, that whatever they’re stepping into, it’s gonna cost them more than they can afford.
The next morning, the boardwalk is a different beast. The early light is harsh, bleaching the graffiti on the walls to pale ghosts of color, and the air carries the sharp bite of salt and seaweed, mixed with the faint tang of spilled beer from last night’s revelers. Sol walks a step behind Mira, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his worn jeans, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up against the glare. His boots scuff against the uneven concrete, dodging a discarded vape pen and a scattering of crushed soda cans. The crowd is thinner at this hour, just a few joggers in neon leggings and a couple of bleary-eyed tourists snapping pics of the ocean, but he still feels exposed, like every pair of eyes is waiting to report back to Darius.
Mira’s ahead, her stride quick and purposeful, a cheap canvas bag slung over one shoulder. She’s dressed down—ripped shorts, a faded T-shirt, flip-flops slapping against her heels—but there’s a tension in her posture, a coiled readiness that makes Sol’s nerves hum. “We’re meetin’ him at the mural,” she calls over her shoulder, not slowing down. “The big one with the shark, near the skate park. He don’t like bein’ seen in the open too long.”
Sol grunts, scanning the stretch of boardwalk ahead. The mural she’s talking about looms a block away, a massive painting of a great white bursting through waves, its jaws wide and dripping with neon blood. It’s a Venice landmark, a backdrop for a thousand Instagram shots, but today it feels ominous, like a warning scrawled on the wall. “This guy got a name, or we just callin’ him ‘Shady McShadeface’?” he mutters, half to himself.
Mira shoots him a look, her mouth twitching. “His name’s Nico. And yeah, he’s shady, but he’s solid. Knew him back when I was runnin’ with a different crowd, before I washed up here. He’s got ears everywhere—clubs, warehouses, even some of the cop hangouts. If there’s chatter about the Broker, he’ll know.”
They reach the mural, the shark’s painted teeth towering over them, and Mira slows, her eyes flicking across the scattering of people nearby. A kid on a skateboard grinds along a low rail, the screech of metal on metal cutting through the air. A woman with a yoga mat under her arm sips from a green smoothie, oblivious to anything but her phone. Sol shifts his weight, the ache in his jaw a dull throb now, and follows Mira’s gaze to a figure leaning against the wall, half-hidden in the shadow of a palm tree.
Nico’s older than Sol expected, maybe late forties, with a wiry frame wrapped in a black leather jacket despite the heat. His face is sharp, all angles and scars, a jagged line running from his left eyebrow to his cheekbone like someone tried to carve him a new smile once. His hair’s buzzed short, gray at the temples, and his eyes are hidden behind mirrored aviators, reflecting the shark mural back at them. He’s smoking a cigarette, the tip glowing orange as he takes a slow drag, and when he spots Mira, his mouth curves into something that’s not quite a smile.
“Well, damn,” Nico drawls, his voice low and rough, like he’s gargled gravel for breakfast. “Mira Cortez, as I live and breathe. Thought you’d gone straight, sellin’ trinkets to tourists. What’s got you draggin’ up old ghosts?”
Mira stops a few feet away, her stance casual but her eyes sharp, sizing him up. “Nico. Been a minute. You look like hell.”
He chuckles, a dry, rasping sound, and flicks ash onto the concrete. “Hell’s where I live, sweetheart. You know that. Who’s the muscle?” His gaze shifts to Sol, the aviators tilting slightly as he takes him in, lingering on the bruise under Sol’s eye.
“Sol,” Mira says before Sol can answer. “He’s with me. We got a problem, Nico, and I’m hopin’ you can point us in the right direction.”
Nico exhales a plume of smoke, the scent bitter and acrid, mixing with the salt air. “Problems are my specialty. But I don’t do charity, Mira. You know that too. What’s the ask?”
She glances at Sol, a quick, almost imperceptible look, before stepping closer to Nico, lowering her voice. “We’re lookin’ for someone. Goes by the Broker. Word is, he’s got a safehouse around Lincoln, behind one of the dispensaries. I need to know if that’s legit—or if it’s just smoke. Can you dig?”
Nico’s face doesn’t change, but there’s a subtle shift, a tightening around his jaw, a pause before he takes another drag. “The Broker, huh?” he says finally, his tone flat, unreadable. “That’s a big name to be throwin’ around. Dangerous name. Why you want him? You in some kinda debt, or you just got a death wish?”
Sol steps forward, his patience thinning, the heat and the ache in his face making him reckless. “Does it matter? Can you help or not?”
Nico’s head tilts, the mirrored lenses catching Sol’s reflection, distorting it into something hard and unrecognizable. “Easy, tough guy. I’m askin’ ‘cause I don’t like walkin’ into traps. The Broker ain’t just some street punk you can roll up on. He’s got layers—protection, decoys, the works. If you’re chasin’ him, you better be ready to bleed for it.”
Mira cuts in, her voice smooth but firm. “We’re not lookin’ to start a war, Nico. Just need to know if the Lincoln spot’s real. If it is, we got a play. If it ain’t, we walk away. Simple as that. You in or out?”
Nico studies her for a long moment, the cigarette burning down to his knuckles before he finally drops it, grinding it under his boot. The air between them feels charged, heavy with unspoken history, and Sol can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to this than Mira’s letting on. Finally, Nico nods, a slow, deliberate motion. “Alright. I’ll poke around. But it’s gonna cost you. Five hundred, upfront. And if I get heat for this, I’m comin’ for you, Mira. Not him. You.”
She doesn’t flinch, just reaches into her bag and pulls out a roll of bills, smaller than Sol expected, and slaps it into Nico’s outstretched hand. “Half now. Rest when you deliver. Deal?”
He counts the money with a flick of his thumb, then pockets it, the ghost of a smirk on his scarred face. “Deal. Gimme a day or two. Meet me back here, same time. And Mira—don’t do anything stupid ‘til then. I’d hate to see that pretty face of yours messed up worse than your boy’s here.”
Sol bristles, his hands curling into fists in his pockets, but Mira just nods, her expression cool, unreadable. “See you in two days, Nico. Don’t let me down.”
They turn to go, the shark mural looming behind them, its painted jaws seeming to snap at the air. Sol’s pulse is hammering, the weight of Nico’s warning sinking into him like a stone. He doesn’t trust the guy, not for a second, and he’s starting to wonder if he trusts Mira as much as he thought. As they walk back down the boardwalk, the morning crowd thickening around them, he can’t shake the feeling that they’ve just stepped into something darker, something with teeth of its own.
[To be continued in the second half of Episode 3]
The boardwalk stretches out under their feet, a cracked ribbon of concrete baked by the climbing sun. Sol keeps pace with Mira, his boots scuffing against the grit, his mind churning like the ocean to their left. The water glitters under the morning light, a deceptive calm hiding the riptides beneath, and he can’t help but feel it’s a mirror to whatever game they’re playing now. The crowd is picking up—street vendors hawking tie-dye shirts, a guy on a unicycle weaving through tourists, the sharp tang of weed smoke drifting on the breeze. Sol’s hood is still up, shielding the bruise on his face, but he feels the weight of every passing glance, like Darius’s eyes are everywhere, watching through the cracks of Venice Beach.
“You sure about this Nico guy?” he mutters, his voice low, almost lost under the squawk of a seagull overhead. “He looks like he’d sell his own mother for a pack of smokes. And that scar—guy’s been in some serious shit. You really trust him to keep his mouth shut?”
Mira doesn’t look at him, her flip-flops slapping a steady rhythm as she dodges a kid on a scooter. Her bag swings against her hip, the strap worn thin, and her jaw is set, like she’s biting back something she doesn’t want to say. “I trust him to do what’s in his interest,” she replies finally, her tone clipped. “Nico’s not loyal to anyone but himself. Long as we’re payin’, he’ll play ball. And yeah, he’s been in deep—deeper than you’d wanna know. But that’s why he’s useful. He’s got connections we don’t.”
Sol snorts, kicking at a stray pebble that skitters across the boardwalk and into the sand. “Useful. Right. ‘Til he decides Darius pays better. Or ‘til he figures out we’re in over our heads and bails. Then what?”
She stops suddenly, turning to face him, her eyes narrowing against the glare of the sun. Her curls are coming loose from the rubber band, framing her face in wild tendrils, and there’s a hardness in her expression that makes his gut twist. “Then we deal with it, Sol. Same as always. You think I don’t know the risks? I’ve been runnin’ cons and dodgin’ trouble since I was fifteen. I get it—Nico’s a snake. But we don’t got a lotta options right now, do we? Unless you’ve got thirty grand stashed under your mattress I don’t know about.”
He glares back, his hands balling into fists in his pockets, the ache in his jaw flaring as he clenches his teeth. “I’m just sayin’, we’re walkin’ a thin line here. One wrong step, and it’s not just Darius comin’ for us. This Broker guy, if he’s real, ain’t gonna take kindly to us sniffin’ around. And I don’t wanna end up floatin’ face-down in the canal ‘cause we trusted the wrong person.”
Mira’s face softens for a split second, just a flicker, before the steel comes back. She steps closer, her voice dropping low, almost a whisper under the hum of the boardwalk. “I’m not gonna let that happen. Okay? We’re in this together. I got your back, Sol. Always have. But you gotta trust me on this. Just for a couple days, ‘til Nico comes through. Then we figure out the next move.”
He holds her gaze, searching for something—reassurance, maybe, or a crack in her confidence. But her eyes are steady, dark and unyielding, and he knows arguing won’t change a damn thing. Finally, he nods, a sharp jerk of his head, and looks away, out at the ocean where a surfer wipes out, disappearing under a crest of foam. “Fine. Two days. But if Nico screws us, I’m blamin’ you.”
She smirks, a quick flash of teeth, before turning and walking on. “Fair enough. C’mon, we got work to do. Can’t just sit on our asses waitin’.”
They head back toward the shop, a narrow storefront squeezed between a tattoo parlor and a smoothie stand, its faded sign reading “Mira’s Mystic Bazaar” in peeling purple paint. Inside, it’s a cramped maze of shelves packed with cheap incense, knockoff jewelry, and stacks of tarot decks wrapped in plastic. The air smells of patchouli and dust, the single ceiling fan creaking as it spins lazily overhead. Sol flips the “Closed” sign to “Open” while Mira dumps her bag on the counter, pulling out a notebook scrawled with inventory notes and debt tallies. The thirty grand they owe Darius isn’t written down anywhere, but it’s there in the air, a ghost haunting every corner of the shop.
They spend the next few hours in a tense rhythm—Sol restocking shelves, Mira handling the trickle of customers, mostly sunburned tourists looking for a “spiritual experience” or a five-dollar souvenir. Every time the door chimes, Sol’s hand twitches toward the switchblade in his back pocket, half-expecting one of Darius’s goons to stroll in with a grin and a baseball bat. But the day drags on without incident, the heat outside building until the shop feels like an oven, the fan doing little more than stirring the stale air.
By late afternoon, the boardwalk is packed, a sweaty crush of bodies and noise, and Sol’s nerves are frayed to a thread. He’s behind the counter now, wiping down the glass display of fake crystal pendants, when Mira’s phone buzzes on the shelf beside him. She’s in the back, sorting through a box of new stock, so he glances at the screen out of habit. The name “Nico” flashes in blocky white letters, and his stomach drops like a stone.
“Mira!” he calls, his voice sharper than he intends. “Your boy’s callin’.”
She’s out in a second, brushing dust off her hands, her face unreadable as she snatches the phone and answers. “Yeah, Nico. What you got?” Her tone is casual, but her body’s tense, one hand gripping the counter as she listens. Sol watches her, trying to read the conversation in the flicker of her eyes, the slight purse of her lips. After a minute, she nods, though Nico can’t see it, and says, “Alright. Same spot, tonight. Nine. Don’t be late.” She hangs up, slipping the phone into her pocket, and meets Sol’s stare.
“Well?” he demands, crossing his arms, the rag still dangling from one hand. “He find somethin’ already? That was quick. Too quick.”
Mira hesitates, just long enough for the knot in his gut to tighten. “He’s got a lead,” she says finally, her voice measured. “Says the Lincoln spot might check out, but he’s not a hundred percent. Wants to meet tonight, fill us in. Bring the rest of the cash.”
Sol’s brow furrows, the bruise on his face throbbing as his jaw clenches. “Tonight? I thought we had two days. What’s the rush? And why’s he so damn eager all of a sudden?”
She shrugs, but it’s forced, her shoulders stiff. “That’s just Nico. He moves fast when he smells a payoff. Look, it’s good news. If he’s got somethin’ solid, we’re one step closer to a deal with Darius. We meet him, hear him out, pay up. Then we decide.”
He doesn’t like it. Not the timing, not the sudden shift, not the way Mira’s avoiding his eyes as she busies herself with straightening a stack of flyers on the counter. But he doesn’t push—not yet. Instead, he nods, tossing the rag onto the shelf behind him. “Fine. Nine o’clock. But I’m bringin’ the blade. If this goes south, I ain’t gettin’ caught flat-footed again.”
Mira glances at him, a flicker of something—worry, maybe—crossing her face before she masks it with a smirk. “Wouldn’t expect any less. Now help me close up. We got a few hours to kill, and I wanna eat somethin’ before we head out.”
The sun’s long gone by the time they reach the shark mural again, the boardwalk bathed in the sickly orange glow of streetlights and the neon flicker of bar signs. The night crowd is different—louder, rougher, a mix of locals looking for trouble and tourists too drunk to notice they’re out of their depth. The air’s cooler now, a damp breeze rolling in off the ocean, carrying the scent of salt and fried food. Sol’s hands are deep in his hoodie pockets, one wrapped around the handle of his switchblade, the other clenched into a fist. Mira’s beside him, her bag swapped for a smaller crossbody, the remaining cash for Nico tucked inside. Her flip-flops are gone, replaced by scuffed sneakers, and her posture is tight, like she’s expecting a fight.
The mural looms ahead, the shark’s teeth glowing under a nearby light, looking even more menacing in the dark. Nico’s already there, leaning against the wall in the same leather jacket, a fresh cigarette dangling from his lips. His aviators are off now, revealing narrow, pale eyes that scan the crowd with a predator’s focus. When he spots them, he straightens, flicking the cigarette to the ground and grinding it under his boot.
“You’re on time,” he rasps, his scarred face twisting into that not-quite-smile. “Good. I don’t like waitin’.”
Mira stops a few feet away, Sol a step behind, his gaze locked on Nico’s hands, watching for any sudden moves. “Cut the small talk,” Mira says, her voice flat. “What’d you find? Is the Lincoln spot legit?”
Nico tilts his head, his eyes flicking from her to Sol and back again, like he’s weighing how much to say. The boardwalk noise hums around them—shouts, laughter, the thump of bass from a nearby club—but the space between the three of them feels tight, charged, like the air before a storm. “It’s real,” Nico says finally, his tone low, almost a growl. “Or close enough. Got word from a guy who runs product outta one of the dispensaries on that strip. Says there’s a back building, boarded up, looks like nothin’ from the street. But there’s movement—guys comin’ and goin’ at odd hours, heavy security. Sounds like a safehouse to me. Could be the Broker’s.”
Sol shifts, the blade in his pocket feeling heavier, colder against his palm. “Could be? That’s not worth the cash we’re payin’. You got anything solid, or we just takin’ your word for it?”
Nico’s eyes narrow, the scar on his face catching the light as his jaw tightens. “Watch it, tough guy. I don’t deal in guarantees. I deal in intel. What I got is a location and a strong hunch. You want proof, go see for yourself. But I’d bring more than that little sticker in your pocket if you do.” He nods toward Sol’s hand, a smirk tugging at his lips, and Sol feels a jolt of heat, realizing Nico’s clocked the blade without him even pulling it.
Mira steps in before Sol can snap back, her hand brushing his arm, a subtle signal to cool it. “Alright, Nico. We’ll take it from here. Here’s the rest.” She pulls the roll of bills from her bag, holding it out, but Nico doesn’t move to take it right away. Instead, he stares at her, his pale eyes unblinking, like he’s seeing something she doesn’t want him to.
“You sure you wanna play this game, Mira?” he says, his voice softer now, almost a warning. “The Broker ain’t just a name. He’s a shadow. You go pokin’ around, you might not like what you dig up. And Darius—he’s got a long memory. Longer than mine.”
Her face stays hard, but Sol catches the slight twitch in her fingers, the way her grip on the cash tightens for a split second. “I know what I’m doin’,” she says, her tone steady. “Take the money, Nico. We’re done here.”
He holds her gaze for a beat longer, then reaches out, his scarred hand brushing hers as he takes the roll. He doesn’t count it, just slips it into his jacket, and steps back, melting into the shadow of the palm tree. “Your funeral,” he mutters, lighting another cigarette, the orange glow flaring in the dark. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
They turn to go, Sol’s pulse hammering in his ears, the weight of Nico’s words sinking into him like lead. The boardwalk feels tighter now, the crowd pressing in, every face a potential threat. He glances at Mira, expecting to see her usual defiance, but her expression’s off—pale, almost haunted, her eyes darting to the shadows as they walk. “You good?” he asks, keeping his voice low.
“Yeah,” she snaps, too quick, her stride picking up. “Just... let’s get outta here. We’ll scope Lincoln tomorrow. See if Nico’s full of it or not.”
But Sol’s not buying it. There’s something she’s not saying, something Nico’s warning shook loose, and it gnaws at him as they weave through the night crowd, the shark mural fading into the distance behind them. They’re halfway back to the shop when he notices it—a figure trailing them, just out of clear view, a dark shape slipping between groups of people, keeping pace. His hand tightens on the blade, his breath catching as he nudges Mira, nodding subtly over his shoulder.
“Don’t look now,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible over the noise. “But we got company.”
Her eyes widen for a fraction of a second before she forces them back to neutral, her pace steady despite the tension coiling in her frame. “Darius’s guys?” she whispers, her hand brushing the strap of her bag, like she’s ready to bolt.
“Dunno. Could be. Or could be Nico sold us out already. Either way, we ain’t leadin’ ‘em back to the shop. Take the next alley, cut through to Rose. We lose ‘em there.”
She nods, almost imperceptibly, and when they reach the narrow alley between a taco stand and a shuttered art gallery, they duck in, the shadows swallowing them. The alley reeks of garbage and piss, the walls slick with grime, and Sol’s boots crunch on broken glass as they move fast, sticking close to the brick. He risks a glance back, his heart slamming against his ribs as he spots the figure at the mouth of the alley, pausing, then stepping in after them. Too tall for Nico, too broad for most of Darius’s crew he’s seen. Someone new.
“Faster,” he hisses, grabbing Mira’s arm and pulling her along, their footsteps echoing in the tight space. They burst out onto Rose Avenue, the street quieter, lined with parked cars and dim storefronts, and Sol scans for a place to duck—anywhere to shake this tail. But before he can decide, a low voice cuts through the night, cold and sharp, stopping them dead.
“Stop runnin’, Cortez. We need to talk.”
Mira freezes, her breath hitching, and Sol turns slowly, his hand on the blade, ready to flick it open. The figure steps into the pool of a streetlight, revealing a man in a dark coat, his face half-shadowed but familiar in a way that makes Sol’s blood run cold. Not Darius, not Nico, but someone Mira clearly knows—someone whose presence turns her face to ash.
“Ramon,” she breathes, her voice barely a whisper, laced with something Sol’s never heard from her before: fear. “How the hell did you find me?”
The man—Ramon—smiles, a slow, predatory curl of his lips, his eyes glinting like polished obsidian. “You think you can hide from me? After everything? I’ve been waitin’ for this, Mira. And now, you’re gonna pay for what you did.”
Sol’s grip on the blade tightens, his mind racing as he steps in front of her, every instinct screaming danger. Whoever this guy is, whatever history he’s got with Mira, it’s bad—worse than Darius, worse than the Broker. And as Ramon takes a step closer, his hand slipping into his coat, Sol knows they’re out of time, caught in a trap they never saw coming.