Nine days.

Nine damn days had passed and he still didn't know what the fuck had happened between him and Charlie that night.

Remi hit the bag again. One-two. Jab-cross. He did it again, then again.

She had wanted him to do something to the guy who'd touched her. And he had.

Jab-cross-hook. The chains suspending the punching bag rattled at the last hit and he danced away from it, bobbing and weaving like he was ducking punches. 

She'd slapped him. He'd let her.

He whirled, his heel slamming into the bag. Sweat soaked him, dripping into his eyes and making his shirt stick to him.

Was she afraid or wasn't she? He might have said yes she was. But then she'd let him kiss her—had kissed him back. Her shaking hands had said afraid. Her blazing eyes had said something else.

Jab-cross-hook-uppercut. His knuckles skidded across the canvas. He knew he should have wrapped his hands at least. He should have worn gloves, even. But he wanted split knuckles and torn skin.

He wanted to move and fight until he collapsed and could think about nothing but his next breath.

Light on his feet, he circled the bag, kicking and punching until his muscles were screaming.

What does she fucking want from me?

With a final gust of breath, Remi slammed an elbow into the bag, then spun away from it, hands going behind his head. His chest heaving, he glared at himself in the bank of mirrors. His knuckles stung as sweat got into the small cuts.

A knock on the door frame made him glance to the side.

Leon stood in the doorway, ubiquitous cellphone in hand. His gaze swept over Remi, taking in the sweat-soaked clothes and reddened knuckles. There was nothing unfamiliar about the scene he had walked in on. 

Remi didn't believe in resting on his laurels. Maybe he didn't need to pull the trigger anymore. Maybe he didn't need to hand out the beatings. But he wanted to because it guaranteed that he didn't get soft.

That he didn't get lazy or careless. 

And that others knew he was none of those things.

"Would you meet with Guzman?" Leon asked, already looking vaguely doubtful.

"About?" Remi grunted, lowering himself to the floor. He leaned forward, stretching out his legs. He already had a pretty good idea, and the answer was already no.

"I keep telling him you don't do people," Leon said with a sigh. "That you don't want to be involved."

Remi didn't bother answering. The cartels were responsible for more than half of all the human trafficking in the western hemisphere. He knew they brought people through Texas or the Gulf and into Louisiana, and he knew the ugly fate of those people.

Prostitution. Extortion. Modern-day slavery. Ransoms over families they were trying to make money for in the first place.

Remi might have lost his soul years ago, but that particular sin was one he never intended to have on his roster. 

"If he already knows my answer, why does he keep asking?" Remi muttered. "I'm not helping him move people into Louisiana. I'm not getting them documentation. I'm not doing any of it. Does he think I'm just going to turn around and change my mind? When do I change my mind, Leon?"

"Rarely if ever," he answered dryly. "Are you going to meet him?"

Remi looked up and blinked at Leon for a moment. Then he let a small smile tug at his lips. "Why the hell not."

The only response he received was a small snort, then he listened as Leon jogged up the stairs in search of Moira. Remi sighed and went back to cooling down. When he felt sufficiently loose and the sweat had started to dry on his body, he stood and studied the skin of his knuckles.

Some were just red and skinned. Others were split. A little blood was smeared on the first knuckle of his index finger. The new damage was layered over the mostly faded bruises he'd gotten from knocking around Marcus' pimp.

It was a look he liked.

Remi used the hem of his t-shirt to wipe at his forehead, then left the basement, making his way through the hollow house. Stripping out of his sweaty clothes, he got into the shower, turning it to an almost unbearable heat.

It hadn't worked. Nothing had worked. She was still there, clawing at the edges and corners of his mind.

He needed to talk to her, but he didn't want to talk to her. Didn't want to watch her flinch away from him like she had that night. Remi snarled lightly, bowing his head as the water rushed over his shoulders.

That's what had drawn him to her—that ridiculous lack of fear when she looked at him. When she argued with him, or mouthed off. When she took him to bed, snarling and clawing at him in an effort to feed her own desire. When she gave as good as she got.

Remi shook his head, then let his eyes fall closed, bracing his hands on the marble wall of the shower. Images flashed in the darkness behind his eyelids, so fast he almost couldn't keep up with them.

The color of her hair when it was wrapped around his fingers. The line of her throat when she threw her head back. The smooth glide of her body along his.

He lightly thumped his fist against the wall and opened his eyes.

Tonight. He'd go tonight and he'd tell her that he wanted her. And she would either tell him to go to hell, or she'd take him straight to heaven. 

The decision settled over him like a cloud of certainty. It might turn out horribly. It might be the worst decision he'd ever made. But a bad decision was better than no decision and little risk only ever earned little reward.

Remi had never been in the business of hedging his bets.

                                                                    §§§

"If we're not getting involved, why are we here?" Moira muttered, brushing a strand of dark hair behind her ear.

Fiddling with the cuff of his suit, Remi gave her a sideways glance. "Guzman's got a big mouth. Maybe he'll tell me something I don't know."

With a snicker, Moira leaned against the Aventador, crossing her arms. Remi would have bet money that there were at least two guns and three knives somewhere on her person in that moment. Idle curiosity made him want to ask where she kept them.

The artful drape of her jacket and the easy way she moved made it nearly impossible to tell, even for someone like him. Wyatt, one of her attack dogs, sat at her feet, his large ears flicking back and forth.

Quietly, she said, "I don't like what he does."

Remi stayed silent, gazing contemplatively at the abandoned office building Leon had suggested as a meeting place. A few of Moira's people were combing through it as they spoke, making sure the Mexican hadn't decided to come early and get cute.

"I have no illusions about my life, Remi," she continued. "I have no illusions about what we do, how you make your money. But there are still some lines we have to draw in the sand, right?"

Now he turned toward her, frowning. Moira chewed at a tag of skin on her lower lip, watching the door to the office building.

"I'm not here to deal, Moira," he finally said. "I'm not interested."

"Why?" she breathed, like she hardly dared ask the question.

He couldn't answer for a moment, lost in thoughts and memories. Mostly of nameless, faceless men who hadn't bothered to slink quietly out the backdoor like the rats they were. 

If people wanted to hurt themselves, fine. He didn't care. If people wanted to hurt others, that was their business, not his. He stayed out of it because he couldn't stop it anyway.

But he didn't particularly care for abusing those who didn't have a say in the matter. There was a difference between weak and vulnerable. One he would capitalize off of, one he would not.

But he didn't owe anyone an explanation. So he just shrugged. "More trouble than it's worth, one way or the other."

Moira watched him for a long moment, but when he didn't offer anything else, she went back to looking at the building. She suddenly cocked her head. "Marlon says everything looks good."

"Good. Tell 'em to get the hell out of there before they show up." 

Moira murmured into the mic at her wrist. After that was done, she quickly unclipped it from her sleeve and removed her earpiece, tossing them through the cracked window of his car. 

Not a moment too soon. 

A black SUV came screeching around the corner, making Remi and Moira both tense. But all it did was pull in behind his car, parking just a little too close. He rolled his eyes at Moira, making her grimace in answer. 

She tried to sidle a little closer to him, but Remi stepped away at the same moment, just as the front-passenger door of the SUV was thrown open. Guzman stepped from the vehicle, straightening what appeared to be a calfskin jacket.

A wiry man of short stature, Guzman didn't cut a particularly fearsome figure. But he had a monumental sense of pride wrapped around a short-fused temper. 

"Buenos tardes," Remi said, offering a hand.

Guzman returned the greeting and shook before Remi gestured him forward to the building. Just behind them, Remi could feel two of Guzman's toughs falling into place. Moira was a little off to his left, pacing them, her dog pressed against her leg as he moved with her.

Remi lengthened his stride a touch and opened the door, slipping into the dark interior. He led the way to what appeared to have been a conference room at one time. There was no missing the flicker of irritation on Guzman's face when Remi took the seat at the head of the dusty table.

It was almost an effort to keep from smirking. Remi leaned back in the chair and raised an eyebrow. He waited until Guzman took a seat.

Moira stood opposite the door, near a bank of windows. Wyatt circled the room once before Moira clicked her tongue and the dog came to heel, sitting at her feet. His tongue lolled out as he watched the Cartel representative with keen, bright eyes.

It amused Remi that Guzman's boys kept looking at the dog. Part of him wanted to tell them exactly what part of their anatomy the dog had been trained to go after, if only to watch them cringe.

The silence dragged out for a long moment. Remi's fingers brushed against each other before he tapped them on the chair's arm. "What does El Jefe want with me this time?" he finally asked, voice bordering on bored.

"This is what I like about this man," Guzman said, turning slightly to address his people. His accent was light and pleasant—almost genteel. "No beating around the bush with him."

The two bodyguards remained stone-faced and Guzman turned back to Remi. "El Jefe wants to know how business is."

"Rollin' right along," Remi drawled. He grinned, the expression edged with fang. "And you?"

Guzman shrugged expressively. "Some years are good. Some are bad. The border is an unforgiving place."

"I'm sure it is," Remi responded, not giving an inch.

"These past years have been better than some," Guzman said, a smile twitching beneath his thin mustache.

"The fees you pay can attest to that," Remi said, letting a sly smile of his own flicker into place. He supposed he shouldn't taunt, but what was the point of all his hard work if he didn't get to laud over it a little?

Guzman didn't appear to feel the same way. His expression soured and he shifted in his seat, leaning a little more toward Remi. "Speaking of fees..."

Immediately Remi let his expression go cold and hard. It had taken two years' worth of negotiating and more than a little spilt blood to finally settle on a number that allowed the Cartel's products into New Orleans. Drugs, ghost guns, counterfeit money. It all came with a tax that had bought the Lamborghini waiting for him outside.

"Our products are good earners for you, no?" Guzman asked. 

Remi was instantly on guard. He blinked once, making sure his expression was blank, slightly unforgiving but completely unreadable. The only one with a better poker face than him was Leon. He kept his shoulders loose but ready.

A portrait of unyielding strength.

"Some years are better than others," Remi said, repeating an answer Guzman had given him a moment ago.

The Mexican tilted his head in acknowledgement. His dark eyes glittered with purpose. "Are you not interested in more successful years, rather than fewer?"

And here they were.

Remi propped his cheek on his fist, watching in satisfaction as Guzman's eyes went to his knuckles. It took every ounce of the self-control he could lay claim to not to laugh when he said, "You don't want to get too greedy. Highs and lows come and go, that's just the nature of life."

"Perhaps," Guzman said vaguely. "But there are some things that will always be in high demand."

A growl clawed at his throat at the implication. Yeah, he knew what was always in high demand. And he still wasn't fucking interested.

But he let Guzman say his piece. And when he'd made his point about cheap labor and loopholes you could drive a Kenworth through, Remi stood and buttoned his jacket.

He offered a hand, which Guzman shook.

Then he said, "My answer is still no."

The shock on Guzman's face was almost priceless. Remi cracked a smile and started toward the door, Moira right on his heels. Guzman's men shifted forward, one reaching out to grab Remi's arm. To stop him.

Remi hissed and jerked to the side. Moira needed no other prompting.

A sharp whistle split the air, followed by an evil-sounding snarl. Remi flattened himself against the wall, not about to get in the middle of what was coming.

Wyatt launched himself over the table, ears flattened, jaws gaping. Then the screaming started as his sharp teeth clamped down on the offending hand. Faster than a blink, Moira had one gun leveled on the other thug, another on Guzman.

The Mexican settled back into his chair, every movement calm and precise. He rapped out a quick order in Spanish. 

The dog was still savaging the first man's arm, the screaming and thrashing overwhelming in the small room. Remi sent a meaningful glance toward Moira, who let out two sharp whistles, then snapped, "Release!"

Wyatt shook his head twice more, his sharp fangs tearing into flesh, blood smeared in his deep-brown fur. Moira snarled the command again and the dog released the man, who collapsed to his knees, cradling his ruined arm.

With a sigh, Remi smoothed back a few strands of hair and looked at Guzman, whose dark eyes were glued to the gun Moira had leveled at his head. 

Straightening his jacket, Remi opened the door and said, "I'm not interested in damaged goods, señor. And you'll understand if I don't take unnecessary risks that could end with the federales getting involved. Keep your coyotes out of my damn city."

Guzman didn't so much as blink in acknowledgement. Remi whistled softly and Wyatt shot from the room, trotting out in front of him. He went into the hall, his stride long but his pace unhurried and was quickly joined by Moira, a gun still in her hand.

She kept looking over her shoulder. He didn't.

They exited the building without a word and Remi threw himself behind the wheel of his car. Moira fell into the passenger-seat, Wyatt hopping up into her lap. She barely managed to get the door closed before he pulled away from the curb.

He didn't speed. He didn't let the tires squeal or the engine roar.

This was his city, and he did not run in his city.

Besides. The bloodstains smeared across Wyatt's maw would lead to awkward questions if he was pulled over.

Neither spoke for a long time. Not until they had entered the Garden District.

Then Moira let out a long breath and cooed to Wyatt, "Who's a good boy?" She ruffled his ears, giggling like a schoolgirl when the dog wagged its tail at the praise and turned in her lap, licking at her face.

Remi smirked. The man was lucky, really.

Moira usually trained her dogs to go after balls.

"We'll get you cleaned," Moira continued, petting the dog. "Get you right as the rain."

Remi turned onto a quiet street that would lead to the one his house was on and Moira fell quiet, her hand patting Wyatt's side gently.

He sighing through his nose. "See if anyone wants to make a little extra over the next few weeks. Put them at the docks and a few of the known spots. Don't engage, just watch and report."

"And if they try to move people in anyway?" Moira asked, looking steadily out the window. He turned onto Prytania, the Lamborghini snarling at the slow pace.

Remi snorted, then allowed a nasty grin. "Then, Moira dear, we'll play concerned citizen and make a few calls."

A huffed laugh was all the answer he got, but then Moira was sitting bolt upright. Puzzled, Remi let his eyes trail along the distance between them and the front gate. At first, it looked just like a garbage bag.

"Fuck," Remi spat, stomping on the gas and sprinting down the short stretch of road, just to screech to an abrupt halt.

Moira threw herself out of the car, the dog scrambling out of her way. She darted to the crumpled figure, running light fingers over them. "He's alive," she said before turning the body over. "Christ Almighty! It's Gabriel."

Moving fast, Remi got out of the car, glancing around the quiet street before he bent toward the unconscious assassin. "Get him in the car."

Moira grabbed his legs without hesitation as Remi hefted up the man's torso. He was covered in blood, but he was breathing. Without a pause, Remi told Moira, "Contact Leon. Tell him what happened. I'll take him to Charlie"—he grimaced as he nearly stumbled over her name—"get Gabriel sorted out. Do a little snooping around here, make sure no one saw anything."

He didn't bother to think about what he'd do if someone actually had.

"After that, meet me at Charlie's."

Moira's only answer was a sharp nod before she darted over to the gate, punching in the key code. Remi walked around to the driver's side and turned the car around.

Again, he didn't speed, blessing the tinted windows. Gabriel stirred every now and then, but he was soaked in blood. His or someone else's, Remi couldn't tell.

It was an age and a half before he pulled up to the cute yellow house on St. Ann's. For a moment, he stared down the street. Then he watched just as hard in the rearview mirror.

Not a soul stirred.

Gabriel made a small choking sound and Remi got out of the car, gambling that whatever luck he lived by hadn't quite run out yet. Opening the passenger-side door, he stripped his jacket off and did what he could to clean the blood from the assassin's face.

More immediately welled up and he swore viciously.

The longer he waited, the more likely someone would pass by at the wrong moment. Gritting his teeth, Remi took Gabriel's arm over his shoulder and all but dragged him from the car.

Gabriel came to a little and tried feebly to pull away. Remi just tightened his grip and moved doggedly toward the front door.

Please be home.

He kicked at the front door, cursing all the stupid tricks of chance that had left him here like this. 

Fun Fact: punching bags and pads really do tear up your knuckles like that. And it hurts like a son of a bitch every time you bump your knuckles into something the next day XD. If you take it up as a way to exercise, or like me train to fight, definitely wear gloves.

Although, that's a really good way to find out if you're punching correctly. If the skin on the knuckles of your pinkie and ring finger are raw, you're punching wrong. If it's the skin on your index and middle finger, you're punching correctly :)

And the car (personally I find Lamborghinis a little ostentatious, but if Remi is anything, it's a little ostentatious) :