For a moment, it could almost be a normal conversation, two professionals at opposite ends of an industry pretending the table between them isn’t soaked in blood.
Then I shift.
“There’s a matter that requires perspective,” I say, voice low, even. “One of our associates has been accused of disloyalty. Mismanagement of funds. Whispered ties to rivals.”
Her eyes flicker—just once—but her expression holds. “What do you want from me?”
“Your opinion. Legal, practical. Where does loyalty end, and liability begin? It could be related to the earlier case I gave you.”
She takes a beat before answering, as though weighing not just her words but the shape of the silence between them. “Disloyalty is difficult to prove in a courtroom. Unless there’sa clear paper trail, anything else looks like conjecture. The accusation itself carries more weight than evidence ever could.”
Her gaze sharpens. “If you cut him loose, you eliminate risk. If you protect him without proof, you show strength. Either way, the choice isn’t about the law, it’s about the message you want to send.”
Her tone is precise, her reasoning clean. More importantly, it favors us. Not the courts, not the law, not her conscience. Us.
I lean back, studying her face. She doesn’t flinch beneath the scrutiny. She’s telling me what I want to hear, or she’s telling me what she believes. I can’t decide which it is. Her mask doesn’t slip, not even at the edges.
Most people give themselves away without realizing it. A twitch of the mouth, a flicker of the eyes, the cadence of a sentence. Vivienne offers nothing. Just that cool, carved exterior. The more I look at it, the more I want to know what cracks underneath.
I reach into the briefcase beside me, slide a manila file across the table. “Then perhaps you’ll find this useful.”
She glances down at it, fingers brushing the edge but not opening it yet.
“What is it?”
“Information,” I say simply. “A file on one of our own. Sensitive. Potentially damning.”
It isn’t real. Not entirely. Pages doctored, details fabricated, a web carefully spun. It doesn’t matter what’s inside. What matters is what she does with it.
“You’ll review it,” I tell her. “Decide what should be done.”
Her eyes lift back to mine, steady, unreadable. “You want my recommendation, or the truth?”
The corner of my mouth curves into a slow smirk. Finally, something new. Not defiance, not submission—something else entirely. A challenge.
I tap the table once, softly, a signal I rarely give but one she’s earned tonight. “That,” I murmur, “depends on whether you know the difference.”
Her expression doesn’t change. Still, for the first time since she walked in, I feel the faintest edge of a game beginning.
The silence stretches between us, heavy as stone. For a moment, I expect her to hedge, to smile politely and deflect. That’s what most people do when they realize I’ve handed them something sharp enough to cut. Instead, Vivienne leans forward slightly, fingers brushing the edge of the file but not opening it yet. Her eyes lock on to mine.
“The recommendation would be simple,” she says, voice smooth, low. “Shred it. Pretend it doesn’t exist. Once information like this is acknowledged, it owns you. The truth…” She pauses, her gaze unwavering. “The truth is that it doesn’t matter what’s in here. What matters is what you’ll do with it once you’ve decided who you trust.”
Her words linger. Not just the content, but the way she says them. Each syllable is precise, deliberate, carrying a weight that presses long after the sound fades. My men speak with fear, my enemies with bravado.
Her eyes don’t waver. Not once. I search them, probing for a crack, some tremor of uncertainty, but all I see is that cool mask. Then deeper—just for an instant—I catch something wild. A flicker beneath the surface, like a storm trapped under glass. She reins it in quickly, but I know I didn’t imagine it.
It intrigues me in a way most women don’t. Beauty has always been easy. Bodies are plentiful, lips eager, smiles cheap. I’ve had all of it, and none of it lasts beyond the moment the sheets cool.
Danger, though—danger is rare. To find it in someone who doesn’t even realize how sharp her own edges are? That is something else entirely.
“You speak with certainty,” I murmur, letting the smoke from my cigar curl between us. “But certainty can be a liability.”
“Then maybe I should call it conviction.”
Her tone is flat, unbending, but it rings with something that refuses to bow. Conviction. She carries it like a weapon, though I don’t yet know where she intends to strike.
I let the silence settle again, listening to the faint thrum of bass bleeding through the walls. Around us, the club breathes: glasses clink, voices murmur, laughter sharpens then fades. None of it matters. Not compared to the echo of her voice, the way it threads through my thoughts and settles deeper than it should.
