Each piece fits into a pattern, yet the whole remains opaque. She is hiding something that doesn’t behave like greed or fear.
Most people come to us for money or protection. Some come for revenge and think they can stomach the cost. She stepped closer after the first blood she watched up close. That says more than anything she has told me.
I take one last drag, grind the cigarette out against the stone rail, and pocket the butt. The night presses its cold palms to my face. I think of her voice tonight.
Tomorrow I will test her again. I will keep her near. I will learn what sits behind those eyes. Curiosity keeps men alive when it is disciplined. Curiosity kills them when it is not. I have walked that border most of my life; I do not plan to cross it now.
The problem: I am thinking about her too often. That fact alone irritates me. Distraction corrodes judgment. Desire corrodes discipline. Neither has ever been allowed to live long in me. If one must survive, it will do so inside a cage I build myself.
The car pulls up for me. I descend the townhouse steps and slide into the back seat. The driver asks nothing; I answer nothing. As we glide toward the river, the city throws our reflection across black water. I close my eyes and let the engine hum erase the party’s music.
***
The armory is colder than the upstairs, the kind of chill that clings to concrete and steel no matter how many heaters are humming in the vents. The air smells of oil, gunpowder, and iron. I’ve walked these rows for half my life, but tonight I noticethe sound of her steps beside me more than the arsenal that surrounds us.
The armory is nestled beneath my club, a well-kept secret.
Her heels click against the floor in a steady rhythm, unhurried, deliberate. Most people who walk into this room betray themselves in an instant: eyes wide, movements stiff, breath caught at the back of the throat. They look at the weapons as if each one might go off by itself.
Vivienne doesn’t. Her gaze is sharp, controlled, moving across the racks like she’s cataloguing inventory instead of standing in the heart of Bratva power.
I unlock a steel cabinet at the far wall, pulling it open to reveal rows of pistols, each one polished and lined like soldiers waiting for inspection. I reach for a small, compact model, light enough to conceal but heavy enough to command respect. Turning, I place it in her palm.
“Just in case anyone ever forgets whose side you’re on,” I tell her. “I’ve seen you handle a gun before, but here we have an array of different options. Choose one you like, and it’s yours to keep.”
Her fingers wrap around the grip easily, no hesitation, no tremor. She studies the weapon for a moment, then lifts her eyes to mine. She doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t protest, doesn’t play coy. She accepts it as if it were no more remarkable than a pen or a folder of documents.
That silence. That calm. It unsettles me.
“Do you understand?” My voice comes out lower than intended, a weight pressed against the quiet.
Her answer is immediate. “Perfectly.”
Nothing else. No elaboration, no gratitude. Just that one word, smooth as glass.
We stand there longer than I should allow. Her hand fits the weapon, her posture steady, her face carved in control. I’m close enough to see the reflection of the fluorescent lights in her eyes, but they give nothing away. I’ve broken men with stares alone; she doesn’t even blink.
I should respect it. Instead, it grates.
“Most people flinch,” I say finally, watching her.
“I’m not most people.”
Her voice doesn’t waver, but something flickers behind it, something small, buried too deep to pin down. Defiance, maybe. Or memory.
I nod toward the holsters hanging along the wall. “You don’t like it? Choose one.”
She scans them briefly, then selects a thigh rig, the kind I expected her to pick. Practical, easy to conceal under dresses, efficient. She fastens it high against her leg, the strap tight around her skin. The motion is practiced, too practiced for someone who claims to live in courtrooms.
“You’ve carried before, and I don’t just mean at the gala.”
Her hands pause only briefly as she adjusts the strap. “I’ve learned enough to know not to fumble with one.”
Not an answer. Not really.
I step closer, lift the edge of the weapon from its holster, test the draw. Smooth, fast, no hitch. I let it fall back against her thigh, close enough that my knuckles brush fabric. She doesn’t move, doesn’t lean back, doesn’t tense.
Calm. Always calm.
