“Is almost always a disaster.”
Then, the kill shot?—
“Especially when the package is this… decorative.”
His fingers clenched around the glass. The ice cracked softly.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t need to.
She saw it, but didn’t flinch.
She always finished what she started.
Turning toward the door, she adjusted her sleeve with a graceful, blade-sharp motion.
“Your grandfather believed in you,” she said, voice smooth as lacquer. “Don’t make him regret it.”
The door closed behind her with surgical finality.
But her words lingered, acrid and cloying.
Gideon turned back toward the city.
The bourbon sat in his palm, but it didn’t soothe.
The strings were tangled, and not all of them were his.
And worse?
He wasn’t sure he cared.
CHAPTER 9
Playing with Fire
The Blackwell Room exhaled elegance and control. But beneath the polish, something primal stirred. Arden felt it the moment she stepped behind the bar. A pulse of power, secrets, and scrutiny.
She moved with intention. No wasted effort. No second-guessing.
Bottles in order. Glassware gleaming. Layout memorized like a trauma cart.
Different tools. Same urgency. Same pressure. New arena. Everything in its place. Every detail sharp.
Marco moved with the rhythm of someone who’d done this for years. Fluid. Instinctive. He walked her through the club’s signature cocktails like a quiet ritual, the weight of legacy tucked into every pour.
“It’s all about reading the room,” he said, watching her mirror his technique. “Skill is expected. Anticipation is everything. You need to know what they want before they even open their mouths.”
Arden added a twist of citrus, slid the bottle back into place with smooth efficiency. “I pay attention.”
Marco gave her a look, curious—maybe impressed—but said nothing. He nodded, then motioned subtly toward a suited man at the far table.
“Table twelve. Mr. Rochester. Macallan neat. Black napkin.”
“Got it,” she said without hesitation, reaching for the bottle.
He chuckled. “You sure you haven’t worked here before?”
