Page 96 of Damián

This is the first time I’ve genuinely wished I could break the rules, visit my sister, and talk to her about what’s going on in my head. Or talk to the Harknetts.

The day I returned to my apartment after waking up at Oliver’s, I turned on the yellow lamp near my window. It’s a code Law came up with:

A white light means everything went okay.

A yellow light means I need contact, but it’s not urgent.

And a UV light means shit hit the fan.

So far, I haven’t heard anything from them, but that probably means they’re waiting for a safe window to reach out without being compromised.

Stressed out of my mind, I head to Grit & Grind to hit something and work on my stretching routine.

“Hey, Damián,” Holden calls out, grabbing a towel from the ropes of the sparring ring. “I need your help buying a painting.”

I pause my workout and look around the gym, where there are zero frames or even decorations outside of their trophies. “Okay…”

“I’m torn between six different pieces, so if you could come to my office and help me look them over, I’d appreciate it.”

And yep. Given the sudden change in location and the time it would take an art dealer to authenticate six paintings, I know one of two things is happening: either the team received my signal, or Holden has my next instructions.

“I had a cancellation this afternoon, so I’ve got all the time in the world,” I say. “Lead the way.”

I follow him up a spiral staircase, but we walk right past his actual office, which makes perfect sense, for the walls in there are mostly glass, designed so he can keep an eye on the entire gym floor all the way from his desk.

Instead, we continue down a hallway lined with glass display cases holding a ridiculous amount of gold-plated championship belts and trophies that he and his team have won.

Jesus… How often do his fighters win? Daily?

We continue for what it seems like forever until we finally stop in front of a black iron door. Holden passes his hand over his buzz cut and “secretly” glances down the hall, then knocks twice.

Vaya, look who’s playing spy now, Holden.

I step inside, taking in the incredible indoor garage. The place has an insane level of security, a workspace area, and a beautiful lineup of cars: an orange Lamborghini Revuelto, a black ’67 Impala, and a black OPS Tuscany.

“Wow. Nice Batcave.”

“We built it after the fifth time one of our cars was broken into.”

“Broken into?” I ask, confused. I mean, isn’t this area super safe?

“By fans…”

“Oh… yeah. I’ve heard your fighters have some crazy fans.”

“Crazy is an understatement. Let’s just say I am glad they know how to fight.”

“So, what news do you have?” I drop my gym bag on the floor and lean against the wall. “Or don’t tell me you actually want to talk about art?”

“Absolutely not… But I am not the one with the news. He is.”

Holden points at the OPS, the door swings open, and the person stepping out is none other than Björn.

His long, ashy blond hair is down, his blue eyes look tired, and he’s wearing a black muscle shirt that leaves his left arm completely exposed, showing off a fresh bandage, which is a dead giveaway that the team has been running raids.

¡Ay! I wanna go to a raid.

“Miss me?” he grins as he opens his arms.