He let the door close. “Then I’m asking. And apologizing.”
“Alright, then. Now tell me—what exactly are you asking for?”
“Everyone agreed to meet here at ten o’clock. Do you have private rooms?”
“I do.”
“There’ll be five of us. You can collect weapons at the door. Whatever it takes to keep the club safe.”
“And these five would include...?”
“The lords of the Irons, the Scarhands, the Doves, the Orphan Guild—and Séance.”
“So the worst criminals and crooks of the North Side,” Narinder said flatly.
Levi shrugged and gave a sly smile. “If that’s what you think of me.”
Narinder’s shoulders relaxed, but he still took several moments to speak. “Fine. But if anything goes wrong, or you spring something like this on me again, there will be no more gangsters in the Catacombs.”
Levi understood that he was included in that statement. He tipped his hat and reopened the door.
“It’s a long time until ten o’clock,” Narinder murmured.
Levi had admittedly come prepared for flirting, and he liked Narinder, but he didn’t like ultimatums. He was tired of all his relationships feeling like a gamble.
“Yes,” he agreed, checking his watch and giving the musician a wave goodbye. “Volts to make. Hearts to break. Empires to build.”
But as he closed the door behind him, both he and Narinder were smiling.
* * *
When the Iron Lord returned to the Catacombs that night, he did so with an entourage. Dressed in the swankiest suits each of them could steal, their polished leather shoes gleaming in the spotlights, reeking of whatever cologne they’d swiped from off-brand department stores, the Irons slipped through the back door behind the stage. Levi walked among them, his hat tipped down to conceal his face.
His silver jewelry—necklace, rings, cuff links—shined, expensive, and new. Something silver gleamed out of his breast pocket, as well—too small for a handkerchief, too large for a ballpoint pen.
It was a symbol.
It was a rumor.
It was a legend.
A hush fell as the Irons entered. The crowds parted. Many stopped their dancing or conversations to get a better look, to lean toward a friend next to them and whisper. They couldn’t tell who the newcomers were, but they understood they were important, players in a game everyone else was spectating from the front row.
Tock led the Irons through the club to a hallway, and from there, up a narrow stairwell to the choir floor. Narinder waited at the top of the landing, his arms crossed. He, too, wore his best—a gray suit, cut tight along his slender frame, a violin case slung over his shoulder. Bouncers flanked him on either side.
“Lords only,” Narinder said sternly. “Everyone else can enjoy complimentary drinks downstairs tonight.”
The other Irons grinned at each other and headed for the dance floor.
“You look smart,” Narinder said to Tock.
She wore a skintight gold dress that accentuated all of her curves, her favorite knife displayed prominently on her bare thigh. “I haven’t gotten to blow anything up yet.”
He smirked. “The night is young.”
Levi turned to her. “Jac should be here. Wait with him. See if he looks...” He swallowed. He’d only sent Jac away two days ago, and he was already worried.
Tock squeezed his shoulder, as though reassuring him. It would’ve been considerate if she hadn’t pressed a bruise, making him wince. “When I saw him yesterday, he was fine.”
