In the square, every resident crammed into the small space shifted their eyes between Lola, the other two disguised locals, and the mercenaries surrounding them.
"Mama," a boy quietly tugged at his mother's sleeve. "Is that your clothes—"
His question died when his mother suddenly covered his mouth with her palm. She swallowed hard and drew a careful breath, her neck going taut as she forced herself to stay silent. She owned only a few sets of clothes. Buying anything new was impossible with their monthly contributions being so high.
So she knew.
The clothes Lola was wearing were hers.
But she kept that knowledge to herself.
The people of Gigante might have been resilient, might have endured the insane increases in their contributions without complaint—but they were also fiercely loyal. Just not to the governor.
Their loyalty belonged to the old lady of the brothel.
