His eyes are steady. Cold. The kind of cold that doesn’t come from nature. It’s learned. Earned. A stillness that masks something far more feral underneath.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he says finally, his voice low and unhurried. “And I don’t like games I didn’t start.”
I let that hang in the air a second longer than I should, testing him.
He doesn’t flinch. Neither do I.
He studies me, a slow drag of his eyes down my face like he’s trying to carve me into pieces without drawing a weapon. “You tail me. Show up uninvited. Hand me a flash drive like it’s a fucking business card.”
“You’re welcome,” I say with a smirk.
His jaw ticks, barely. But it’s there.
I push the drive a little closer across the table. He picks it up, turns it over between gloved fingers, and pockets it like it’s something dirty he doesn’t want to touch longer than he has to.
“I don’t trust men I can’t place,” he says.
“Then place me.”
A flicker of something passes through his eyes. Not fear. But curiosity, maybe. Or irritation. He glances around, taking in the customers surrounding us. He can’t touch me here. Not yet. Not with this many witnesses.
But I’ve already touched something in him.
He lets out a sharp, humorless laugh and sits back. The kind of laugh that sounds like a warning.
“You’re either out of your fucking mind,” he says, “or you’re desperate.”
I don’t answer.
He tilts his head, watching me like I’m a puzzle with a missing piece. Then finally, he stands, slipping the drive deeper into his coat.
“You want a job that badly?” he murmurs, his voice low enough that no one else in the room hears it but me. “Fine.”
He meets my eyes again, deadly calm.
“Come with me.”
And just like that, I know I’ve won this round.
He turns and walks out without a backward glance, expecting me to follow.
And I do.
“So where exactly are we going?” I ask, tailing him to the sleek, blacked-out Benz parked at the curb.
He doesn’t answer. Just mutters, “Get in,” like it’s a threat more than an invitation.
I smirk, pop open the passenger door, and slide inside. The moment it clicks shut, I hear the locks engage.
Of course.
Through the tinted glass, I watch him approach another vehicle a few spots down. Same model, same blackout treatment. He leans in, says something to the driver, and hands over the flash drive. I can’t see the guy’s face, but I know it’s Luca. It has to be.
When Nico returns, he moves like a man who owns the entire goddamn street. He slips into the driver’s seat with a scowl carved into his face like it was born there.
“So,” I say, casually, “this job you mentioned. What exactly does it entail?”
No response. He cracks open the window, lights a cigarette with a silver Zippo, and exhales like I’m not sitting next to him.
