Eddie's mouth opened, but the excuse he'd been cooking up died right there on his tongue.
His face went from beet-red to dead gray. His lips shook. "You—what the fuck did you just say? This is my house. You don't get to stand here and tell me how to run my goddamn family, you little outsider prick!"
Shane stood up slowly and took one step toward him. The move alone pushed Eddie back half a pace.
"Whether I'm ruining your family or not," Shane said, voice low and steady, "depends on the results. This job's flexible hours, pay-by-the-message. With Aunt Sheila's attention to detail and patience, she could pull in more cash in a month than some guys who bust their asses all day, then come home, slam doors, bitch about the world, and take it out on the people who actually live here."
He tilted his head. "Oh, and don't act like I don't know about your little private video collection. You really gonna lecture Karen about staying 'pure'?"
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! You motherfucker—" Eddie's finger stabbed toward the door, hand trembling. "Get the hell out of my house! Right now! Take your bullshit ideas and get the fuck out!"
Karen locked her arms around Shane's bicep and glared at her dad. "Fuck you, Eddie. Keep talking to Shane like that and you're gonna regret it."
Shane reached over and gently ruffled Karen's hair, then looked at Sheila. "Aunt Sheila, you can start whenever you're ready. It's really not hard. I'll leave the laptop right here. Once you start bringing money in, you get to speak a lot louder around here."
He gave her an encouraging nod, then pulled Karen close and planted a kiss on her forehead.
Eddie could only stand there and watch, shaking with rage, too chickenshit to step any closer. Something about Shane's calm, solid presence told him that getting in his face would end badly.
Shane ignored him completely. He gave Sheila a few more quick instructions, settled on her hourly rate, then shot Eddie one last contemptuous look and walked out of the Jackson house with Karen still on his arm.
Karen's family drama wasn't going to settle down anytime soon. He'd deal with that later.
Right now his mind was already on the next problem: how to handle those old street vendors who'd snitched on the breakfast van.
Saturday morning. Rare sunshine over the South Side.
The empty lot beside the community elementary school near the central subway station was packed with kids. Shane stood in front of a bunch of them, clapping his hands once.
"All right, kids, eyes on Coach Shane. Quiet down."
He'd worn a heavy dark-gray cotton hoodie today. Even with the fabric covering him, the cut of his shoulders and the sharp lines of muscle underneath still showed clear enough to make half the West Side moms forget what they were supposed to be doing. The air around the school felt thicker, like someone had cranked the humidity up fifty percent.
Most of the dozen or so kids were from the South Side, a few from the West Side. Danny was right in the middle, chest sticker reading "South Side Energy Run" slapped on his shirt. They were lined up—sort of—under Shane's direction.
Up front, Kevin puffed out his chest and tried to look official as the lead safety runner. Shane gave him a quick nod. Go time.
"Okay, kids, stick with Uncle Kevin and let's roll!"
The little pack started moving. A volunteer parent with a camcorder jogged alongside, filming for the community event. A hired security guy trailed at the back, radio clipped to his vest. A couple college kids earning service hours brought up the rear.
A shiny SUV crept along the curb behind them, loaded with water bottles, tissues, Band-Aids, and spare jackets in every size—the standard West Side mom survival kit.
The route had been Shane's idea. Eileen and the other parents had walked it once and agreed it was safe enough. They'd start at the school, jog down a few clean side streets, pass right by the central subway station, then loop back—officially billed as "experiencing community diversity."
At first the kids were hyped, bouncing along.
Then the scenery changed. Neat fences and quiet yards gave way to colorful graffiti walls, cluttered storefronts, and pop-up vendor stalls. A few of the West Side kids slowed down, eyes wide, staring at everything.
Big-Mouth Ray stood at his usual spot by the subway exit, still pissed off from the morning rush. He was counting crumpled bills, cigarette hanging from his lip, when the noise hit him.
He looked up just in time to see a pack of sticker-covered kids barreling down the sidewalk behind some big dude (Kevin), with a guy filming and a slow-rolling luxury SUV crawling along behind.
The kids cut right through his customer line.
Ray's blood pressure spiked. "What the fuck is this kiddie field-trip bullshit? You think this is your personal playground?"
He tried to ignore them and get back to the next hot dog, but one little boy near the front—distracted, looking around—tripped over his own feet.
"Whoa—shit!" the kid yelped as he pitched sideways.
His hands flailed, knocking straight into Ray's stack of white takeout boxes. They scattered everywhere. Two bottles of ketchup and mustard toppled off the cart; one hit the ground and burst, splattering red all over the boy's shirt and pants.
The parent with the camera gasped. "Oh my God! Johnny, are you okay?"
The commotion drew eyes from every nearby stall.
Ray's head snapped around. His stall was a disaster—boxes everywhere, sauces dripping. The rage he'd been nursing for days finally boiled over.
"You little shit! What the hell are you doing?!" He slammed his spatula down on his shoulder, voice booming. With his dark skin and mean scowl, he looked straight-up terrifying. "Running? Running where, your mama's backyard? Watch where the fuck you're going!"
The boy—Johnny—had skinned his knee on the fall. Ray's roar made him shake all over. Tears flooded his eyes. He clutched his knee and tried to scramble backward, face pale.
The security guy started forward. A couple of the other kids froze.
Before anyone else could move, a solid figure stepped between the terrified boy and the raging vendor.
Shane.
He crouched fast, checked the kid's knee—nothing but a scrape—then helped him up and tucked him safely behind his back.
Shane looked at Big-Mouth Ray, voice calm but carrying.
"Sorry about that, sir. Kid wasn't watching where he was going—it was an accident." He glanced at the mess on the ground. "Tell me how much all that stuff costs. I'll pay for it right now. But you're gonna apologize to the boy you just scared half to death first."