“I’m sure he can.” His smile ticks wider. “But you know how these nights are. Timing is everything. Miss the moment, miss the opportunity.”
There it is—the threat folded into the invitation.
I step a fraction closer to her and become a wall. “She’ll be inside when she’s ready.”
Domenic looks at me. Something cold passes through his eyes—acknowledgment, arithmetic, warning. “Silas wants a word. Soon.”
“I bet he does.”
“He’s not patient, Blake. You remember that about him, don’t you?”
I remember a lot. The warehouse. The smoke. Girls with eyes that had forgotten how to be alive. And Merrick Vale’s body coming out on a stretcher while Silas rewrote the story for the press.
“Tell him I’m working,” I say.
“He’s aware.” Domenic adjusts cufflinks engraved with someone else’s initials. Not his. A gift. A collar masquerading as jewelry. “Consider this a friendly reminder. The clock is running on a few…projects. Including this one.”
The air tightens from the hidden timeline I’ve been issued.
More like a hidden threat.
The French doors open behind us and bleed music into the cold. Three men step out in matching suits and fan in formation. Not staff. Not venue security.
Hollow Club muscle.
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
I clock two I know—Bruno Castellano and James-something who fetches and carries when Domenic wants distance. The third guy is new. Young. Hungry. Dangerous in the way guys are when they want to make a mark more than they want to live.
“Gentlemen.” Domenic gestures toward Peyton like she’s a centerpiece. “Please escort Ms. Quinn to her father. He’s worried.”
“I don’t need an escort,” Peyton says.
“I insist.” He keeps smiling. “Wintervale gets rough after dark. Even at a gala.”
Especially at a gala full of these dangerous fuckers.
The trio drifts closer. Not aggressive yet, just math. Bodies that box us in with an intent that tries to do the rest.
I run the numbers. There’s four of them and one of me. Peyton is behind my right shoulder. And there’s thirty yards to a clean exit. I’ve got fifteen rounds in the Glock, twelve if I’m stingy. The sound would bring a swarm. It would be messy. Public. Exactly the show Silas doesn’t want.
Which means Domenic is bluffing.
Or just dumber than I remember.
“Here’s how this goes,” I tell him, voice flat. “You call off your barbershop trio. You walk back inside. You tell Silas I’ll check in when I’m ready. And Ms. Quinn finishes her conversation without an audience she didn’t invite.”
Domenic’s face barely shifts, but his eyes tighten. “You’re making this difficult.”
“I’m making this clear.”
Bruno’s hand drifts toward his coat. I track the angle, the distance, the draw speed. I’m not in the mood to be careful. These fuckers are annoying me.
“Don’t,” I say, and let him hear the part of me I keep leashed. “You know my record, Bruno. You know what happens when someone makes me choose between messy and effective.”
He hesitates. Good. My reputation is my most valuable currency here. The kid doesn’t, though. He lunges for Peyton like this is his first day on the job. Hell, maybe it is.
I pivot, catch his wrist mid-reach, and turn. I use clean mechanics. Ligament finds bone and stops. He gasps. I lean until the joint bends to my will, and the kid drops to his knees. His face goes pale.
