Chapter 313

“Shift the blame,” Anson said. “Make Eliza think Dallas is the target. Make her think being around him is dangerous.”

“But —”

“Do it, or I send the evidence of your little brake job to the police,” Anson threatened.

“Fine,” Dosha said.

Anson hung up. “Get out,” he told Cathey. “Send Eliza in.”

Cathey fled.

A moment later, the door opened. Eliza walked in. She looked exhausted, her face pale.

“Anson,” she whispered.

Anson changed instantly. The cruelty vanished. He let his head fall back against the pillow and released a pained sigh, letting himself look vulnerable. Broken.

“Eliza,” he breathed. “You’re safe.”

“Because of you,” Eliza said, walking to the bedside. She took his hand. “Anson, your leg —”

“It’s a small price,” Anson said, squeezing her fingers. “To see you standing there.”

“I don’t know how to repay you,” Eliza said, tears spilling over.

Anson smiled inwardly.

“Don’t leave me,” he whispered. “Not yet. Stay with me until I can walk again. Help me through this.”

Eliza hesitated. She thought of Dallas. But then she looked at the cast, at the blood seeping through the bandages.

“I promise,” she said. “I’ll help you.”

Dosha paced the floor of her safehouse, a cigarette burning in her hand.

Estevan walked in from the garage, wiping grease from his hands with a rag. He looked unbothered.

“That pretty boy has some nerve, ordering us around,” Estevan grunted.

“He has leverage,” Dosha snapped. “We do what he says. For now.”

At the S&D offices, the lights were still on.

Dallas sat at the head of the conference table, his leg propped up on a chair. Zane and Weston stood by the monitors. The security footage from the track was playing on a loop.

“Here,” Zane said, pointing. “Gap in the feed. Five minutes. Right before the race.”

“Someone looped the camera,” Dallas said. “Professional.”

Zane tossed a photo onto the table. “Facial recognition picked this guy up leaving the service entrance. Estevan Norton. Dosha’s brother.”

Dallas looked at the photo. The man was wearing a cap, but the jawline was distinct.

“Norton,” Dallas muttered. “Roaches. This feels bigger than Dosha’s petty revenge, though. It has the precision of old enemies — the ones who never forget.”

“Do we hit them?” Weston asked, his hand drifting to his belt.

“Not yet,” Dallas said. “Anson knows. He has to know. But he hasn’t called the cops, which means he’s using it.” He stood, grabbing his cane. “I’m going to the hospital.”

Dallas arrived twenty minutes later. He didn’t wait for the nurse to announce him. He walked straight down the hallway to Anson’s room.

The door was ajar.

Inside, Eliza was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a spoon, feeding Anson broth. Anson was watching her with a sickening, triumphant tenderness.

Dallas felt something snap in his chest.

He shoved the door open with the head of his cane. It banged against the wall with a loud crack.

Eliza jumped, dropping the spoon. “Dallas?”

“Get up,” Dallas said. “We’re leaving.”