Broken Hands

125. Finding Grayson

The air was still and the cafeteria empty, except for Damien and Eddie, seated in the farthest, most secluded space.

Eddie was tense. His fingers tapped anxiously against the table, his jaw set. Damien, on the other hand, was calm—looked calm. His mind was already five steps ahead, the plan set in motion. He needed enough words—enough evidence—to send both men to prison.

Simple.

Eddie would introduce him as a dealer. A man with fighters—boys ready to be pushed into the underground arena. Men like Arnold and Ricky thrived on desperation. They gutted young boys, turned them into entertainment, let them die if it meant stuffing their pockets they didn't care.

And Grayson had been a victim.

Damien's fingers itched to pull a gun on Eddie right then and there, to put a bullet between his lying eyes, but he buried the urge deep.

A bell rang as the door pushed open. The waitress at the counter didn't move, she knew. This place was a safe house for men like Arnold—a place to talk, to deal, to settle things quietly or, when necessary, to make someone disappear.

Two men walked in. The first was short, wrapped in a worn-out winter coat, his eyes filled with experience and expertise. The second was a giant, clad in a heavy jumper, the kind of man built for breaking bones. Damien's fingers curled slightly around his coffee cup.

"Eddie," the short one greeted, his smile twisted, dark—outright evil.

Damien knew men like him.

"Arnold." Eddie forced a smile, though his fingers trembled slightly against the table.

"Heard you were held up," Arnold said, slipping a hand into his pocket.

"Yeah, mistake. I bought my way out," Eddie replied smoothly.

Arnold's gaze flickered over him. "You look battered."

"Got into a brawl with a dealer," Eddie muttered before shifting the subject. "Hey, how's the arena?"

Arnold didn't answer. Instead, he turned his attention to Damien, finally acknowledging the man in all black, his blond hair catching in the dim light as he sipped his coffee, perfectly unbothered.

"Who's the blond?" Arnold's rose with a hidden suspicion.

"That's the man I told you about—Smith." Eddie gestured. "He's got some boys. He wants into the arena."

Damien kept his posture relaxed, but his fingers itched against the ceramic of his mug. The way Eddie lied so naturally made him sick.

Arnold's eyes narrowed.

"What do you do for a living?"

Damien exhaled slowly. His patience was wearing thin.

"I get rid of garbage." His voice was low, but the threat behind it was unmistakable.

Arnold raised a brow.

"A hitman," Ricky muttered, speaking for the first time.

Arnold grinned, finally taking a seat across from them, Ricky following.

"And what does a hitman want from us?" His tone was smug. "What does killing have to do with fighting?"

Damien leaned back, fingers curling loosely around his coffee cup, letting Eddie do the dirty work.

"Oh, he's interested, Arnold," Eddie jumped in quickly. "He has strong boys. He's a professional."

Arnold didn't blink. Instead, he gave a sharp nod to Ricky.