“I resent any use of the word ‘little’ when it comes to my working parts.” He flicked the scooter’s stand down and pressed a hand against my spine, guiding me forward. “However, not even I could concentrate on the business of loving with the noise your stomach is making.”

“It isn’t that bad.”

“Trust me, it is.”

He opened the door and ushered me through. Once we’d received our burgers, fries, and drinks, I said, “Table or booth? Or would you rather leave and find somewhere close to satisfy those other urges?”

“As much as I’d love the latter, I can’t ride a Vespa and eat at the same time.”

“And here I was thinking you were multitalented.” I started unwrapping my burger. “Besides, I have two hands. I’m quite capable of holding several bags of food until we get to whatever hotel we decide on.”

“It’d be our luck I’d take a corner too fast and the hot drinks would go everywhere, scalding all sorts of important bits. No thanks.” His smile flashed. “Besides, remaining close to the trench might actually be safer than moving away from it right now. Normal people would run, not remain in the danger zone.”

“And we’re about as far from normal as you could get.” I scooped up several fries, munching on them as I added, “I need to get back to Rory by dawn, and it’s going to take us a while on that fucking scooter.”

“Never fear, I actually do have a car arranged.”

“From who?”

“Makani. Who is,” he said, before I could ask, “a friend. One of her current lovers runs a car dealership.”

“That’s rather handy.”

“Indeed. I did have to promise her a weekend at some posh spa resort in return for said car, but I decided the sacrifice was worth it.”

“Oh yeah.” My tone was dry. “A weekend spent in a hot tub with a hot woman will be so tough.”

“You have no idea.” He glanced at his watch. “We have to meet her in an hour.”

“Where?”

“At the yard in—”

He stopped as my phone rang. I pulled it out of my pocket and glanced at the number. “It’s an office call being rerouted—do you want me to answer it?”

He hesitated. “No, but I’ve got a feeling we’d better.”

“Your little feelings are becoming as inconvenient as mine.” I hit the ANSWER button.

“Emberly?” a gruff and all-too-familiar voice said. “Radcliffe.”

Or, to give him his full title, Marcus Radcliffe III. He not only owned a string of secondhand stores that were little more than a front for a roaring trade in black market goods and information, but he also happened to be the man who ran the underground gambling operations for the rat shifters—operations that Rinaldo had recently attacked.

“What can I do for you, Radcliffe?”

“You wanted a meet?” he snapped. “We do it. Right now.”

My stomach clenched, and my gaze rose to Jackson’s. He’s here. The bastard’s here.