CHAPTER SEVEN: SOUTHERN BLOOD
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I.
The Palomar Residences rose from Ocean Beach like a faded postcard—cream stucco walls, turquoise trim, palm trees swaying in the morning breeze. The third-floor unit faced the Atlantic, full windows catching the sunrise and setting it on fire. Below, a pizza shop glowed with warm light, the smell of dough and tomato sauce drifting up through the floorboards.
Marina woke to the sound of Nikki cursing in the kitchen.
Not gentle cursing. The kind of cursing that involved God, frying pans, and the specific betrayal of a stove that refused to cooperate.
She pushed herself up, her hair a red explosion against the pillow. The bed was unfamiliar—firm mattress, white sheets, a view of the ocean that made her chest ache. Marcos's people had set this up. Everything clean. Everything impersonal. Everything a reminder that they were guests in someone else's city.
She padded barefoot to the kitchen.
Nikki stood at the stove, a spatula in one hand, her other hand on her hip. The frying pan was smoking. Inside, what might have once been an egg had transformed into a blackened crisp, welded to the metal like a fossil.
"The egg got burned," Nikki said, her voice flat.
Marina leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "I can see that."
"I was making breakfast. For us. Because we're supposed to be normal people who eat breakfast." Nikki gestured at the pan with the spatula. "This is not breakfast. This is a crime scene."
Marina sighed—the long, suffering sigh of someone who had learned to pick her battles. "We can order pizza. We just have to go to the balcony and scream at the guys downstairs."
Nikki's face transformed. The frustration melted into something bright and almost childlike. "Really?"
"Really. They know us now. We're the crazy new tenants." Marina pushed off the doorframe. "Get the pepperoni. And order a chicken one for Shupto. He doesn't eat pork."
Nikki was already running to the balcony, her bare feet slapping the tile. She threw open the glass door and leaned over the railing, her voice carrying across the morning air.
"PEPPERONI AND CHICKEN! EXTRA CHEESE!"
Somewhere below, a muffled voice called back, "TWENTY MINUTES!"
Nikki turned, beaming. Marina shook her head, but she was smiling.
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Shupto's room was at the end of the hall, door half-open, morning light spilling across the floor. Marina pushed it wider and stepped inside.
He was asleep.
His grey hair was spread across the pillow like smoke. The sheet had slipped to his waist, revealing the landscape of his chest—the scars she'd seen before, the tattoos she'd only glimpsed. His breathing was slow and deep, his face relaxed in a way it never was when he was awake.
Marina stood at the edge of the bed, watching him.
The urge to kiss him was a physical thing—a pressure behind her ribs, a heat in her fingertips. She wanted to lean down, press her lips to his, feel him wake against her mouth.
Her pride stopped her.
You're not some lovesick teenager, she told herself. You're a fighter. A ghost. A woman who's going to rule this city.
You don't just kiss people while they're sleeping.
She leaned down and kissed his forehead instead. Soft. Quick. Just a brush of lips against warm skin.
She turned to leave.
His hand caught hers.
Marina froze. His grip was gentle but firm, his fingers threading through hers. Before she could pull away, he tugged—not hard, just enough to unbalance her.
She fell back onto the bed, onto him, and in one smooth motion he rolled, pinning her beneath him. His grey hair fell across his face. His dark eyes were half-lidded, still heavy with sleep, but there was something else there too—something warm and hungry and patient.
"You kissed me," he said, his voice rough.
"I kissed your forehead. That's different."
"Is it?"
He lowered his mouth to her neck. Not kissing—breathing, his lips brushing her skin, her pulse point, the hollow beneath her ear. Marina's hands came up to his shoulders, but she didn't push him away. Couldn't. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.
"Shupto—"
"Nikki's not here," he murmured against her throat.
"Nikki's—she's in the kitchen—"
"She's ordering pizza. We have twenty minutes."
His mouth found the spot where her neck met her shoulder, and Marina forgot how to argue. Her back arched, her fingers tightening, a small sound escaping her throat that she'd never heard herself make before.
His hand slid under her shirt, warm against her stomach.
Then—
"PIZZA'S COMING!"
Nikki's whistle cut through the apartment like a police siren. Marina shoved Shupto so hard he rolled off the bed and landed on the floor with a thud.
She was on her feet in an instant, her face burning, her shirt twisted, her heart trying to escape through her ribs.
Shupto sat up, rubbing his shoulder, but he was smiling. That soft, disarming smile that made her want to punch him and kiss him in equal measure..
She stormed out of the room, nearly colliding with Nikki in the hallway. Nikki took one look at Marina's flushed face, her tangled hair, the way she was straightening her shirt, and raised both eyebrows.
"Don't," Marina said.
"I didn't even say anything," Nikki replied, her voice dripping with innocence.
"Your face is saying everything."
Behind her, she heard Shupto laugh—low and warm and infuriating.
The pizza arrived fifteen minutes later. They ate it on the balcony, watching the waves, the morning sun, the slow crawl of tourists on the beach below.
Nobody mentioned what had happened in the bedroom.
But Marina caught Shupto looking at her more than once, and each time, her face got a little warmer...
II.
The Sentinel rolled south along Ocean Beach, the morning sun bleaching the pastel buildings white. Marina drove with the windows down, the salt breeze whipping her red hair across her face. Shupto sat beside her, his grey hair dancing in the wind. Nikki was in the back, one hand resting on her belly, the other pressed against the window glass.
Ocean Beach was waking up around them—tourists in bright clothes stumbling toward the sand, shopkeepers rolling up metal grates, the smell of coffee and frying plantains drifting from open doorways. The architecture was a time capsule: Art Deco curves, neon signs that had been flickering since the eighties, pastel pinks and greens and yellows that shouldn't have worked together but did.
Marina drove slow, taking it in.
This was the heart of VEX City. The money. The tourists. The pretty surface that hid the rot underneath. Every block had a story—a club that was a front, a hotel that laundered cash, a restaurant that served as a meeting place for people who didn't want to be seen.
"There," Nikki said, pointing at a stretch of beach where a volleyball game was forming. "That's where we should go when this is over. When the baby's born. Just for a day. Just to be normal."
Marina glanced at her in the rearview mirror. "When this is over, we'll go wherever you want."
Nikki smiled, small and hopeful.
Shupto broke the silence. "We need someone who knows the southern strip. Someone who can tell us who runs what, who to trust, who to avoid."
Marina nodded. "Someone who knows every alley. Every gang. Every business that's a front and every business that's legit."
"I know just the guy." Shupto's voice was calm, certain. "He owes me some favors."
Marina glanced at him. "Who?"
"Drive to the mall beside the hospital in Ocean Point. I'll introduce you".
The game changed. A new member is joining. The southern strip has no idea what are they gonna face.