I don’t.
I fucking hate this godforsaken city. Hadn’t planned to return this soon, but this latest assignment changed everything. The job has put me closer to the man I’ve been hunting, the man I intend to put into the ground.
For Natalie.
The waiter circles past again, his smile fixed, then he heads down the stairs to the main level. The bar is nearly empty, not uncommon for a Tuesday. It’s also the reason I chose to meet Benedict Callahan tonight.
My gaze falls back to the stairs as I take another sip of the Hide’s Old Fashioned. It’s overpriced, poorly balanced, and heavy on rye that can't mask cheap bitters.
But I don’t drink it for the taste. I drink to watch who’s watching me.
From the corner table on the upper level, I have the best viewpoint in the room. The glass railing even reflects enough that I don’t have to look directly at the stairs to know who’s coming. But right now, I do, especially as a kid with auburn hair comes into view.
Benedict Callahan.
My client.
He climbs the stairs like he’s out for a casual stroll, hands tucked in the pockets of his black skinny jeans, wearing an untucked button-down and white sneakers. He looks like most college kids. Except for the Slim d'Hermès Squelette on his wrist, which is thirty-four thousand dollars of “fuck you” money ninety-eight percent of the world doesn’t have.
I take another sip of my Old Fashioned, the ice mostly melted, as he reaches the landing and spots me. He smirks, strolling over with a confidence that’s nothing like the awkward kid hiding behind his sister the media portrays.
And he came alone.
I set my glass down, my eyes never leaving his. There’s something dark there, something even darker in that smirk.
“Mr. Bristow.”
I nod. “Mr. Callahan. Take a seat.”
Benedict sits, placing a manila envelope from under his arm onto his lap.
I don't usually meet clients face-to-face since digital escrow handles the money. But the second part of the payment for this job is intel on the man I’m going to kill. And that information must be exchanged without ever touching a network.
Especially when that man is a senator.
“Should probably look at the menu, make this seem normal. Except I’m on the wrong side of twenty-one for that game.” Benedict nods at my drink. “Though that bourbon's an interesting choice. Would've pegged you for something . . . cleaner. Less sweet.”
“You're confusing preference with camouflage.” I glance toward the stairs, then back to him. “Your turn. What's in the envelope?”
He chuckles low, and it’s more breath than sound, like a kid who just found out where the matches are kept. “Don't worry, I really did come alone. It's more fun that way.”
“Save the performance. We both know what we are. The envelope, Mr. Callahan.”
His finger taps his chin as he tilts his head slightly. “I do have one question, Mr. Bristow. Why did you kill Cordelia Walsh? Connor and his friends had the situation taken care of.”
Except they didn’t. If I hadn’t stepped in, my brother would’ve been gutted. I got into this line of work to take care of him, and I wasn’t going to sit back and do nothing when his happiness was about to be fucking destroyed.
I let the silence stretch for three heartbeats. “I needed to ensure that I received my payment. Now, I won’t ask again.” My gaze drops to the envelope in his lap, then back up.
“Skipping the foreplay and going right to the main event. Fine.” Benedict hands me the manila envelope. “Inside you'll find a micro-SD card with the senator's actual financial records—not the sanitized ones his accountants file. Plus, some interesting photos from his . . . extracurricular activities. Names, dates, locations.”
I open the envelope and pull out the contents, not bothering to respond. The micro-SD card goes into my jacket pocket before I quickly flip through the papers and photos to make sure this kid delivered what was promised and isn’t fucking with me.
One catches my eye.
Not of the senator, but some kid with a compass tattoo on the left side of his neck, looking at the camera like he's in on a joke nobody else gets. It’s a particular brand of trouble I recognize from a mile away—the kind that gets off on doing exactly what they shouldn't be.
A goddamn brat.
