There is a long, high rectangular cutout in the ceiling that comes about two feet down, allowing the noise, smoke, and a bit of light to shine through. The clink of glass and soft chatter is all that’s heard.

Ransom stands with Freddy, only inches from where one room leads into the next.

He chuckles, his shoulders lax, elbow loosely pressed against the banister on his left.

He seems calm, content, and my lips begin to curve at the sight, but then his eyes lift to mine.

His body goes pencil-straight, an instant frown forming, one that grows deeper as he looks to the guys at my side.

We’re in front of him in the next second, and Arsen grips his shirt, attempting to tug him, but Ransom grabs his wrists to keep them both there.

Freddy must understand their dynamics because he carries himself into the room without a word.

“What?” Ransom growls, his eyes on Arsen.

Beretta closes off our little square, and I can’t help but notice the way both his and Arsen’s stances widen, as if they’re preparing for something, I’m unaware of, that’s on the way.

“We need to go,” Beretta says calmer than expected.

But the way Ransom’s eyes narrow and the slight cock of his head lets me know there is a reason.

Beretta drops his chin. “Your brother’s here.”

My eyes snap his way, quickly shifting back to Ransom.

The sharp, always confident curves of his face, fall flat, and my brows meet in the center.

With a single blink, his expression flips.

Ransom jerks himself free, darting for the entrance, but Arsen grips the back of his shirt, yanking him so hard the thin cotton shreds, Ransom’s steps strong and firm. But Arsen jerks forward, grabbing Ransom by the shoulder, and before Ransom can shove him off, Beretta is bumping him in the chest, locking his arms around Ransom’s torso and it takes both of them to tear the angry boy back.

The three slam into the wall, shoving him repeatedly to keep him there.

I watch them, wide-eyed, and Ransom tries to throw them aside, but then Arsen’s forearm shoots up, pushing into Ransom’s neck, pinning him as hard as he can against the wall, Beretta right there adding force with his palms against his bicep.

“Stop, man,” Beretta hisses.

“Fuck him, is he for real? He’s here, as if he hasn’t run through enough already?” he spits, his lip curled and body heaving. “He needs his ass handed to him.”

“Yeah, and you’re the one for the job, but not like this. There’s no hiding, and he’ll fuck you”. Beretta is seething, right in his face. “That what you want? One wrong move, man, and it’s over.”

Curiosity is the only excuse I have for my forward steps.

“You’re better than him,” I hear Beretta say. “Fuck. Him.”