He doesn’t look up when I enter. “Leave it.”
I cross to the filing tray and set the folders down in the order he likes.
“Actually, stay.”
Fuck.
Varina is stretched across the cracked leather couch by the window, one boot braced against the coffee table while she rolls a glass of whiskey between both hands. She looks furious in a contained way, which is worse than when she yells. She glances at me once, and whatever I see in her expression is gone before I can name it.
Canon leans back in his chair and studies me with the detached patience of a man deciding how much information something deserves. My father has the kind of face people survive instead of forget: broad, weathered, silver coming through the dark of his beard, eyes cold enough to make grown men rethink their decisions halfway through speaking. He built the Rogues from almost nothing, and he’s spent the rest of his life making sure nobody forgets that.
“Alliance goes live next week,” he says.
I keep my face still. “With Obsidian.”
His eyes narrow a fraction, not because he’s surprised, I know, but because he’s deciding whether to be annoyed by it. “You saw the paperwork.”
“You gave me the financials.”
“I gave you numbers,” he says. “Not opinions.”
I lower my gaze because that’s usually the safest place to put it around him. “I didn’t offer one.”
Varina snorts softly into her glass, but Canon ignores her.
“Obsidian needs bodies for corridor security,” he says. “We need revenue. Their XR3 pipeline is expanding faster than they can protect it, and our last two runs got hit hard enough that pretending otherwise would be stupid. We give them enforcement, they give us a cut of distribution and access to their network. Everybody gets stronger.”
Everybody except whoever has to be turned into the symbol holding it together, but I don’t say that. Canon’s attention shifts toward Varina for half a second. “Your sister will represent the Rogues on-site.”
Varina’s jaw tightens, but she says nothing.
“She’ll step up publicly as my heir for alliance purposes,” Canon continues. “The Obsidian table needs to know they’re dealing with our future, not just a temporary arrangement.”
I already know where this is going because I read the file, but hearing it out loud makes the room feel smaller.
“She’ll marry into Obsidian,” Canon says. “That seals it.”
I look at my sister before I can stop myself. She doesn’t look back this time. Her eyes are fixed on the opposite wall with so much hatred in them I almost feel sorry for the plaster.
Canon continues like he hasn’t just rearranged her life in one sentence. “You’ll go with her.”
My stomach drops.
“For logistics,” he adds. “Obsidian’s operation is larger and cleaner than ours. More structure, more money, more risk. They need somebody who understands movement, books, inventory, and route coordination without needing every numberexplained twice. You’ll keep your head down, follow Varina’s lead, and make yourself useful.”
Useful. The word is so familiar that it should be dull by now, but it still finds soft places to cut. Not trusted. Not valued. Not chosen. Useful, the way duct tape is useful, the way spare keys are useful, the way something kept in a drawer becomes useful when somebody else has a problem to solve.
Canon reaches for the cigar cutter on his desk, turning it once between thick fingers. “You’ll stay out of political conversations unless someone speaks to you directly. You’ll handle ledgers, route assessments, supply coordination, and whatever else Varina needs. Obsidian’s VP controls most of the XR3 infrastructure, so when he gives you instructions, you follow them.”
Saint Solomon Masters.
Everybody knows the name, even people who pretend they’re too important to pay attention to other clubs. Sol’s son. Obsidian’s monster. The man people describe with a lowered voice and a careful glance toward the nearest door, as if saying his name too casually might make him appear.
I’ve never met him, but the thought of being handed from Canon’s authority to another man’s makes something bitter rise in my throat.
Varina drains the rest of her whiskey in one swallow. “Can we be done with this?”
Canon doesn’t look at her. “We’re done when I say we’re done.”
