I bring Nitro, Ghost, and Koa.
Five of the Alliance guards are waiting when we arrive. Roman, the new head of the Alliance at the center, which tells me everything about the current state of his confidence. He’s flanked by two men I recognize from the casino incident and two I don’t. The ones I don’t recognize carry something that marks them as observers, here to watch and report back, not participate.
Good.
Let them watch.
We slide in across from them without ceremony. I don’t offer a hand, nor does Roman. We’ve never done that, and there’s no reason to start now.
Roman is in his mid-forties. Silver hair, a suit that costs more than most people’s monthly wage, eyes that have spent decades looking at men across tables and calculating the distance between what they say and what they mean. He looks at me with calculation, and I let him look, because what he’s going to find is exactly what I intend for him to find.
“Sin,” he says.
“Roman.”
He gestures. “I have to say, I was surprised to get your message. Given the circumstances.”
“The circumstances are why I’m here,” I say.
I don’t grab the folder straight away. My hand rests on the edge of the table for a second, fingers spreading slightly, feeling the worn grain of the wood under my palm. The table is solid, anchored, unlike everything else in the room.
The weight of attention settles in, quiet but unmistakable. Cutlery pauses mid-air at nearby tables. A low murmur from the bar carries and thins.
Then I reach inside my cut.
It’s a small movement, ordinary, but it lands like a trigger.
Chairs shift behind Roman. Not loud, but sharp enough to cut through the background noise. His men move in sync, hands already halfway to weapons, jackets pulling tight across their shoulders, their eyes locking on me with trained, immediate focus.
I feel it all without looking.
I slow, stopping just enough, my hand paused inside my leather cut. My gaze lifts, tracking across them, one by one, letting them see that I’ve noticed exactly where their hands are, and exactly how fast they’re willing to move.
A faint smirk pulls at my mouth. “Bit early to start pulling guns in a packed restaurant, don’t you think?” I say, conversational, like we’re discussing the wine list instead of escalation. “We haven’t even ordered.”
The waiter hovering two tables over freezes completely, tray balanced mid-air.
No one laughs.
The tension tightens instead, stretching thin across the space, waiting for someone to snap it.
Roman doesn’t raise his voice. He simply waves his hand dismissively. “Stand down.”
It lands like a decision already made. The movement unwinds just as cleanly as it began. Hands ease back. Jackets settle. Shoulders drop a fraction, but the focus doesn’t leave me.
Once his goons have stowed their weapons, only then do I finish the motion, sliding my hand free and placing the object on the table between us.
Which is definitelynota gun.
It’s just a Manila folder.
Creased at one corner, softened from being handled too many times. Plain paper inside. No letterhead, no names, nothing that tells a story except the one written in the numbers.
I set it down between us and slide it across the table. “Take your time,” I say.
Roman looks at me for one full second before he opens it. One of his flanking men reaches forward, but Roman stops him with a small movement of his hand.
He opens the folder himself.
