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He nods once, his murmured response lost beneath the hum of other conversations, and Angel leaves without exchanging anything beyond a few words and a single notation in Ghost’s perfect script.
A few minutes later, William slides into the seat across from Ghost. The Beta works as a lab technician at the place used by all the police stations, and I find myself hoping he has no connection to the man we have planted there, too.
Once again, Ghost makes notes, the man walks away, and I take a long sip of my whiskey sour to wash down the reminder of why I’m even here.
The chess players break out into an argument, the taller one annoyed with his current position. Around me, the bar staff moves through their routines with the ease of a place that’s been running this way long enough for muscle memory to take over.
Three more exchanges unfold. Each one adds a piece to the puzzle I’ve been assembling since my first week, and each one leaves me feeling slightly worse about building it. It’s not financial, nor mercenary. That much has become clear. The faster I can confirm it, the faster I can stop sitting here cataloguing the movements of people who have done nothing to deserve it.
The answer’s in the ledger.
I finish my whiskey in a long swallow and stand, my bruises protesting. I leave my glass at the table as I cross toward the bar. If anyone’s watching, I’m just flagging down a server. Nothing to draw attention.
A woman at the bar shifts down a stool to give me room, nodding in acknowledgment. I nod back, choosing a spot close enough to eavesdrop on his phone if it rings but far enough away not to trigger his natural caution.
It’s a balance I’ve been working on for weeks, learning how much distance to leave before his instincts start sounding alarms.
My patience pays off when his phone buzzes on the table. Ghost checks the screen, frowns, and stands, phone pressed to his ear as he heads for the far end of the bar where the sound system pipes in from overhead speakers. His body turns away from his table as he leans against the bar, the conversation already absorbing his full attention.
I close the distance in three quick steps, my back to the bar and Ghost’s retreating figure. No one’s watching. They’re all too busy with their drinks, their conversations, and their new chess game. I position myself where a quick reach for a napkin will explain away my presence if Ghost happens to turn around.
The handwriting is evenly spaced, the black ink forming careful columns with headings that aren’t dollar amounts or street names. Instead, they’re labeled with Open, Active, Pending, and Settled, with names and dates that form a history of exchanges too complex for me to decode in the thirty seconds I’ve allowed myself.
But I don’t need to decode the entire system to see what matters.
No Vartanian names appear in any column. No notation of territory, no mention of corridors, no coded references to our holdings or operations. Just small, careful arrangements of protection, mediation, and settled debt. A ledger of balances, not threats.
My chest tightens as I grab a napkin and return to my booth, sliding into my seat with casual grace while my limbs shake with relief.
No war exists here.
Which means the document my uncle showed Alexei was manufactured. Concern replaces the momentary relief. Who would want to force Alexei’s hand against a neutral party? What could they possibly gain? Use us to wipe out the Blue Note to clear someone on the ledger? Or implicate our family in a turf war to weaken Alexei’s position?
I pluck an ice cube from my empty glass and crunch down on it with my back molars.
The music shifts to a slower song, the lights dimming another half-notch as late afternoon gives way to early evening. Around me, more regulars trickle in, and a group of four eye my booth, but I spread out, staking my claim to the space.
A fresh whiskey sour arrives, and my empty glass, along with the soggy napkin, are swept away as the bar staff move through the room with the unhurried rhythm of a space that’s seen a thousand nights just like this one.
As the band sets up on stage, Orien emerges from the back hallway and zeroes in on me from across the room. He moves with the same unhurried ease he always does, hands loose at his sides as he closes the distance between us.
Without asking, he slides into the seat across from me, his feet bumping mine beneath the table, and frowns at my empty glasses. “Didn’t I tell you to hydrate?”
As I stare at him, my ears begin to ring. I’ve confirmed what I came for, but this doesn’t feel like victory.
Because if Blue Note isn’t a threat, I have no excuse to stick close to Orien.
My throat closes at the thought, the whiskey turning sour in my stomach. I don’t want to waste what time is left playing games.
So I don’t.
I side around the booth, closing the space between us, and press my mouth to his.
Orien responds without hesitation, one hand coming up to cup the uninjured side of my jaw, fingers curving to hold me in place as his lips part beneath mine.
The kiss deepens, his tongue curls around mine, bourbon and mint flooding my senses, along with a unique flavor that sends my head spinning. Heat builds under my skin, spreading from my chest to my fingers to my toes, and I make a small, hungry sound into his mouth.
His hand slides from my jaw to my hair, fingers threading through the strands as he shifts, one hand sliding under my thigh and lifting me to straddle him in the booth, knees braced on either side of him as the table digs into my back.
