8

Allison

The next hotel room isn't as nice as the first. "Best we can do for now," Gregory says, unlocking the door to a dingy motel suite. We've got the corner spot, furthest from the parking lot. There's a sitting room with a separate bedroom, but it's all rundown and ugly. "Paul won't come looking for me here."

"I suspect Paul's familiar with this side of town." We're in a bad neighborhood, one of the worst in Portland, but there are dispensaries even in this area. Which means the Debarcio Bratva's got contacts and control.

"He thinks I'm a fancy Callahan, like I'm afraid to get my hands dirty." Gregory strips off his jacket, tossing it aside. "He's very wrong about that." A phone appears in his hands. He unbuttons his shirt without looking at me. "I have some calls to make."

"Who?" I ask, voice shaking. I keep thinking about the gunshot in the stairwell and my father standing with the thugs that tried to kill me.

Has it really gotten so bad?

"We need clothes. You need shoes." He gl