"Your face is shit."
"Weak." But he's smirking, the tension broken, and we slip back into familiar territory—brothers who needle and mockbecause actual affection is too raw, too vulnerable for men like us.
I turn down a narrow street near the waterfront, buildings crowding close on either side. The club's ahead, nondescript brick façade that most people pass without noticing. It's technically closed now, early morning sun making the neon signs look tired and washed out. But there's always activity in the back, always games running, always people who live in the spaces between night and day.
"Where are we?" Stellan straightens, scanning the street with automatic assessment—exits, threats, territory markers.
"You'll see." I pull around to the back entrance, parking in the narrow alley where garbage bins crowd against graffitied walls. "Come on."
He follows without further questions, curiosity winning out over his usual caution. The back door's propped open, morning light spilling into dimness that smells like cigarettes and spilled liquor and the particular musk of a place that never fully airs out. I nod at Tommy, the day manager, who waves us through without comment.
The main floor's empty, chairs stacked on tables, cleaning crew working their way through last night's damage. But I can hear voices from the back room, low murmur of conversation punctuated by the shuffle of cards and clink of chips. Poker game, probably been running since midnight, probably won't stop until someone loses everything or the sun gets too bright to ignore.
I push through the door to the private room. Smoke hangs thick in the air, blue-gray haze that makes everything slightly unreal. Five men around a table covered in green felt, chips stacked in varying heights, cards held close. They glance up at my entrance, tension flickering across faces before recognition settles in.
"Wolfe." The dealer nods, respectful but not servile. Good. I don't need people crawling. "You here to play?"
"Not today." I scan the room, finding who I'm looking for in the corner. "Just visiting."
Stellan tenses beside me as I head toward the man sitting apart from the game—older, maybe fifty, wearing too much gold jewelry and a leather jacket that's seen better decades. Viktor. Sometimes fence, sometimes broker, always connected to the kind of people who can get things nobody else can touch.
"Declan Wolfe." Viktor's smile reveals a gold tooth, deliberately gaudy. "What brings you to my table?"
"Not your table." I pull up a chair, Stellan hovering at my shoulder. "Your merchandise."
Interest sparks in his dark eyes. "What kind?"
"Jewelry." I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "Special occasion type."
Viktor's grin widens. "Ah. That kind of special occasion." He gestures to a black case beside his chair, producing it with the flourish of a magician. "You came to the right place."
Beside me, Stellan goes very still. I can feel his attention sharpening, piecing together implications. The case opens, revealing rows of jewelry—rings, mostly, along with necklaces and bracelets that catch the light and throw it back in fractured rainbows.
"Holy shit." Stellan's voice comes out strangled. "Dec?—"
"Help me pick." I lean over the case, examining the rings with more attention than I've given anything that didn't involve blood or money in years. "You've got better taste than I do."
"That's not saying much." But he's already moving closer, drawn in despite himself. "You're really—you're actually doing this?"
"Yeah." Simple answer. Complete answer.
"Christ." He runs a hand over his face, and when he drops it, there's something in his expression I don't see often—genuine happiness, surprised and unguarded. "You're all in on this girl."
"Told you."
"Saying it and actually buying a ring are different things." He leans over the case beside me, studying the options with that strategic eye he applies to everything. "You know what you want?"
"Something she'd like." I point to a ring in the second row—platinum band with a dark stone, subtle and striking at once. "Not too flashy. She'd hate flashy."
Viktor pulls it out, holding it up to catch the light. "Alexandrite. Changes color depending on the light—purple in natural light, greenish under fluorescent. Rare. Expensive. Very unusual choice."
Like her. The thought settles warm in my chest.
"Try this one too." Stellan points to another—simpler band, single stone, elegant without being ostentatious. "Compare them."
We spend twenty minutes like that, Stellan and I bent over jewelry like we're planning a heist instead of a proposal. He asks questions I wouldn't think to ask—about sizing, about care, about whether the stones will hold up to daily wear. Viktor answers with the patience of someone who knows he's about to make a significant sale, pulling out ring after ring for our consideration.
"This one." I finally settle on the alexandrite, watching how it shifts from deep purple to sea-green as I turn it. "She'll love it."
