Chapter 6

The Fire Spreads

The Boss wasn’t sleeping.

He hadn’t slept well in days.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Rico.

Defiant stare, that smirk that felt like a challenge and an invitation all at once.

He told himself it wasn’t attraction, it wasn’t desire. It was control — or the lack of it. Rico was the first in years who’d said no and hadn’t paid for it with blood or exile. The first who didn’t flinch when he raised his voice, didn’t crumble when he gave orders.

The first to stand in his office and look him in the eye.

That defiance burned.

Not just because it disrespected him, but because it tempted him.

And that temptation was eating him alive.

By morning, the air inside Boss’s Spot felt heavier. The boys moved slower than usual, glancing between each other like they sensed the shift but didn’t understand it.

The Boss stood on the mezzanine with his arms crossed, watching them.

Watching him.

Rico worked at the far end of the bay, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, hair damp and sticking to his forehead as he rinsed the hood of a beat-up sedan. He didn’t look up.

He didn’t acknowledge the eyes on him. But every move he made felt deliberate, controlled like he knew.

The Boss’s jaw flexed.

“Jaylen,” he called with a low voice.

Jaylen looked up from stacking tires. “Yeah, Boss?”

“Pair him with Marco today.”

Jaylen followed his gaze to Rico and frowned. “Rico? Why?”

“Because I said so.”

Jaylen bit back a retort, tossed a rag to Marco, and motioned for him to follow. Marco hesitated but obeyed.

The Boss watched closely as Marco approached Rico, wordlessly handing him a hose. Rico arched a brow but took it, shrugging off whatever silent tension that lay between them.

It was a small test, but the Boss needed to see. Needed to know if Rico would bend for anyone. If his defiance was personal… or universal.

Rico hated mornings here.

Not because of the work — he’d done worse on the streets — but because of the staring. The cameras. The way every boy walked like a ghost in their own body, careful not to breathe too loud, laugh too long, or stand too close.

Survival, that’s what Jaylen called it.

But Rico wasn’t built to survive quietly.

He’d grown up swinging fists in alleyways, stealing food, daring the world to hit him harder. The Boss’s Spot was different. The fights weren’t with fists — they were with silence. Stares and waiting games.

And Rico hated waiting.

Marco worked beside him, quiet as ever. He rarely spoke unless spoken to, and when he did, it was clipped and controlled.

“You missed a spot,” Marco muttered, gesturing to the hood.

Rico wiped harder than necessary. “Better?”

Marco shrugged. “Good enough.”

“Thanks for the pep talk.”

“Don’t need to like you to work with you.” He muttered.

“Mutual,” Rico whispered.

Still, he noticed the way Marco’s eyes flicked upward — toward the mezzanine, toward the tinted glass where the Boss stood watching. Always watching.

From above, the Boss’s grip on the railing tightened.

Marco was close. Too close, not in touch, but in presence and Rico wasn’t pushing him away. That burned more than he expected — a low, simmering jealousy that caught him off guard every time it hit.

He’d seen this before. The boys leaning on each other for comfort, clinging to each other when the nights got heavy. He allowed it — tolerated it — because it made them easier to control. Bond them just enough to keep them here, but not enough to make them brave.

But Rico?

Rico was different.

Rico made him angry in ways he couldn’t explain.

And yet, every time he thought about cutting him loose — driving him out to the highway and leaving him with nothing but the shirt on his back — he couldn’t.

Because Rico wasn’t just defiance.

He was fire.

And the Boss wanted to see how far it burned.

The boys gathered in the break room again, the metallic clang of trays and the hum of the old vending machine filling the silence. Jaylen cracked jokes, Ty laughed too loud, Felix muttered about a busted hose.

Rico sat at the far end of the table, his back against the wall, eating quietly.

Marco sat beside him.

Too close.

The Boss stood at the doorway, watching.

Marco leaned in to say something — something quiet enough that Rico tilted his head to hear. Whatever it was, it made Rico smirk. Just a flicker of amusement or a flash of teeth.

The Boss saw red.

He stepped into the room without a word. The laughter died instantly. Trays stilled and Heads lowered.

Only Rico didn’t move.

The Boss’s boots echoing against the floor as he crossed the room and stopped directly beside Rico’s chair. The silence was suffocating.

“Stand up,” he ordered.

Rico didn’t hesitate. He rose, slow and steady, his eyes locked on the Boss’s. Defiant, even now.

“Come with me.”

The Boss didn’t look back as he left the room. Rico followed, the quiet footsteps behind him like a drumbeat.

The office door shut. The air was thick, electric. The Boss stood with his back to Rico, his fists clenching at his sides.

“You like testing me right?” His voice was dangerous.

Rico didn’t flinch. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You do.”

“Standing near Marco is a test now?”

“It’s the way you looked at him.”

Rico blinked. “You jealous?”

The Boss turned then, eyes black as storm clouds. “Be careful.”

Rico smirked. “Hit a nerve?”

The Boss closed the distance in three steps, standing close enough that Rico could feel the heat rolling off him.

“You think this is a game?” the Boss hissed.

“Isn’t it?” Rico’s voice was calm, almost mocking. “You watch us like pieces on a board. Pick who you want. Move us where you want. But the second someone doesn’t play the way you like, you get… what? Mad?”

“You don’t understand what this place is.” The boss muttered.

“Then explain it.”

“Survival.”

"Obedient."

“That’s what Jaylen says, but I’m starting to think it’s about something else.”

“And what’s that?”

“Ownership.”

The Boss’s nostrils flared. “Maybe it is.”

Rico didn’t back down. “Then own me.”

The room went silent.

The Boss stared at him — really stared — as if searching for the bluff, the crack, the hidden fear. But there was none. Rico wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t submissive either. He was daring him.

The Boss stepped back first.

“Go downstairs.”

Rico tilted his head. “That’s it?”

“For now.”

Rico smirked. “Thought so.”

Back in the bunk room, Rico lay on his bed, his hands were behind his head. The boys whispering around him, glancing between him and the door.

Jaylen sat across the room, watching silently. Marco avoided his eyes entirely.

Rico didn’t care.

He didn’t understand why the Boss hadn’t thrown him out yet — or worse. Any other man in power would’ve beaten him down by now, taught him fear, forced him to kneel.

But not him.

The Boss didn’t hit, he didn’t threaten, instead he watched.

And somehow, that was worse.

Because every time Rico looked up, those eyes were there, on him. Waiting.

And Rico hated it — absolutely hated it — that a part of him liked it.

Upstairs, the Boss poured himself a glass of bourbon, his hands trembling slightly as he brought it to his lips.

He didn’t get jealous. Not like this, not over boys he’d fed and clothed and pulled out of alleys. They came and went. They stayed or left. It never mattered.

But Rico?

Rico was under his skin.

Every laugh, every glance, every word he shared with someone else felt like a knife. Every defiant smirk felt like a challenge he couldn’t walk away from.

And the worst part?

He didn’t know if he wanted to break Rico… or see how far Rico could break him.

The thought made him slam the glass down, bourbon sloshing over the rim.

Tomorrow, he would be deciding.

Tomorrow, the game would change.

The boys were asleep — or pretending to be as usual. The noise of the ceiling fan filled the silence.

Then, the intercom crackled.

“Rico,” the Boss’s voice purred. “Upstairs. Now.”

Rico’s eyes snapped open. He didn’t move for a moment, letting the weight of the call sink in.

Jaylen stirred in the bunk across from him. “Be careful,” he whispered.

Rico didn’t answer, he swung his legs out of bed, bare feet hitting the cold floor, and walked toward the stairs.

This time, there was no smirk.

Just fire.