Page 111 of Tiny's Testament
He surprises me by clapping a firm hand on my shoulder. “Good,” he says. “Means you’re taking it seriously.”
I glance at him. “You think I’m ready?”
Trigger’s mouth presses into a thin line. “You’ve been ready since you stopped running.” He pauses. “Just didn’t know it yet.”
The words hit harder than I expected.
Capone appears at the end of the hall, quiet, unannounced, a presence heavy enough to change the air. He looks at me once, slow and assessing, then nods toward the stairs. “Is she waiting?”
“Yeah.”
Capone takes a step closer. His voice stays low. “You don’t bring someone to the roof unless you’re sure.”
I meet his gaze with no hesitation. “I’m sure.”
Something passes through his eyes. Pride, maybe. Or recognition. He nods once. “Then don’t waste the moment,” he says quietly. “They don’t come around twice.” He turns away without another word.
Trigger smirks. “No pressure.”
I flip him off and keep walking, meeting Syvannah at the bottom of the stairs to head up to the roof.
The door to the roof groans when I push it open, and the night spills in all at once. Cool air, distant traffic muted by height, the city of Los Angeles stretched out below like aliving thing. Headlights crawl along the streets. Neon pulses. Somewhere far below, a siren fades into nothing.
Syvannah steps out ahead of me and stops short. “Oh,” she breathes.
The city light catches in her eyes, and for a second, she just stands there, hands at her sides, taking it all in like she didn’t know the world could look like this from above. The wind lifts her hair and brushes it across her cheek.
Peanut wriggles against my chest, impatient, and I lift her free. She hops to Syvannah’s shoulder like it’s second nature, tail flicking as she surveys the city as if she’s been placed exactly where she belongs.
Syvannah laughs softly. “She thinks this is hers.”
“It is,” I say.
I step closer, the city humming beneath us, the wind tugging at my cut. Peanut hops down from Syvannah’s shoulder and pads toward the low ledge, sitting neatly, tail curled, watching us like she’s been appointed witness.
My hands find Syvannah’s. They’re warm and steady. “I used to come up here when my head got too loud,” I say. “When I didn’t know what to do with myself.”
“And now?” she asks quietly.
“Now I know.”
I drop to one knee.
The sound she makes is sharp and broken, like it gets torn straight out of her chest before she can stop it. Her hands fly to her mouth. Peanut chirps in protest at the sudden movement, then settles again, eyes bright.
I pull the ring from my pocket and hold it up. The small gear catches the city light, dark metal warm from my body, edges worn smooth by my hands.
“This came from my old bike,” I say. “From the wreck. From the part of my life that almost burned everything down.”
Her eyes fill instantly.
“I took something broken,” I continue, voice rough, “and turned it into this. Because you showed me ruined things can still become something worth keeping.”
She drops to her knees in front of me without thinking, like her body decides before her mind can catch up.
I pull the folded Ol’ Lady patch from my cut and set it beside the ring. “I don’t believe family is blood,” I say. “I believe it’s a choice. I choose you. Every day. I choose this.” My throat tightens. “Will you marry me?”
For a heartbeat, she can’t speak. Then she nods. Once. Hard. “Yes,” she cries, laughing and sobbing all at once. “Yes, Tiny. Yes.”
