You hear the door slam shut behind you, the sound rattling through your bones. The air in the room is thick—ink, cash, cologne, and something sharper. Something dangerous.

Rio isn’t lounging this time. He’s sitting forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he’s holding himself back from something worse. His jaw’s tight. His tongue runs over his teeth, and when he finally looks up at you? It’s not the usual amusement. It’s cold.

“Tell me somethin’, mama.” His voice is quiet, too quiet. The kind of calm that comes right before a storm. “You always this reckless? Or you just got a death wish?”

You swallow hard, but he’s not done.

“A blankie.” He lets out a slow, humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “Outta all the things you coulda left behind, you leave your kid’s damn blankie in a car full of junkies? You know what that is?” He tilts his head. “That’s sloppy.”

You open your mouth, but he cuts you off with a look.

“Nah—nah, see, that ain’t even the best part.” He leans back just a little, studying you like you’re some puzzle he’s trying to figure out. “You didn’t just mess up and leave it. You went back.”

That last part comes out sharper, rougher. He’s not asking. He knows.

“You really walked up into a bunch of strung-out, paranoid dopeheads’ house—alone—demandin’ they give it back? You think they was just gonna hand it over, maybe invite you in for tea?”

His laugh is short, mirthless. His fingers drum against his knee, slow, measured.

“So now they’re pissed. Now they think I sent you. And now?” He leans in, close enough that you can feel the heat rolling off him. “I gotta go clean up your mess. Again.”

A long pause. His eyes flick over your face, searching for something. Regret. Fear. Something that tells him you understand just how bad this is.

“Tell me, mama—why the hell do I keep you around if all you do is make my life harder?”

It’s a warning. A test. And if you don’t have the right answer—if you don’t fix this—he might just decide you’re not worth the trouble.