My father loved this city because it never pretended to be clean.
I drive with the windows down, one hand on the wheel, my right hand flexing near my knee. The cut across my knuckles stings, a dull reminder of last night. I welcome it. Pain keeps things sharp.
By the time The Black Orchid comes into view, a resolve has settled over me.
The Orchid sits tucked between two forgettable buildings, easy to miss if you aren’t looking for it. No sign worth advertising. It’s not hidden exactly, just uninterested in being found by anyone who doesn’t already know where they’re going.
The valet recognizes my car and waves me to the curb, efficient and impersonal. I hand him the keys as I walk inside.
Inside, the lounge hums the way it always does on a Saturday night.
Low light, heavy bass, and cigar smoke soften the edges of the room until everything feels slightly out of focus. The walls absorb sound the way expensive places always do, keeping conversations close and contained. People leantoward each other, voices low, words chosen carefully, never quite rising above the music.
It’s crowded, but controlled. No urgency, no disorder. People move with purpose, voices kept low out of habit rather than fear. This is one of the few rooms in the city where discretion is still assumed, where conversations stay where they’re placed and don’t echo beyond the table.
Business happens here, but rarely in clear terms. Ideas are tested. Positions are felt out. Nothing is decided outright, and nothing is said that can’t be softened or reinterpreted later. The Orchid’s value isn’t in what’s agreed to inside it, but in who’s seen together, and how long those pairings last.
My family has history here. That earns familiarity, not control. I recognize faces I know only by reputation—investors, consultants, people whose influence shows up on balance sheets and zoning maps, not headlines.
The lighting stays low and warm, brass fixtures casting an amber glow over the bar and booths. Whiskey and perfume hang in the air. Glasses clink. Laughter surfaces briefly, then fades back into conversation.
You don’t end up here by accident. Someone makes the introduction. Someone confirms you belong. After that, no one stares too long. Attention is subtle. Professional.
My father used to sit three booths down on the left. Same seat every time. From there, he could see the entrance and most of the room without drawing focus to himself.
He taught me how to read places like this. He could always spot who was angling for visibility, who was uneasy, or who was already losing ground and didn’t realize it yet.
A lot of what I learned about this city came from rooms like this. Not in lectures or warnings, but in observation.
For a long time, this place was an extension of him to me.
Tonight, when I step inside, a few heads turn. Not openly. Not enough to draw attention. But enough.
Vin’s already here when I walk in, sitting at the end of the bar. He’s nursing a glass of bourbon. The deep amber liquid catches the light as he tilts it back.
He studies me as I approach with that calm, steady way that defines him.
I slide onto the fixed barstool beside him, ordering my usual. The bartender is quick to deliver a glass of the bar’s finest. I grip the glass, and the coolness bites into my skin as I take my first slow sip. The first one is always the best, burning as it goes down.
Vin breaks the silence first, his voice low and direct. “Ridge, we need to decide on timing. Waiting much longer isn’t going to help us.”
I nod, leaning back slightly, letting him continue. Vin doesn’t talk unless he’s already run the angles. He observes, tracks patterns, and moves only when the variables line up.
“You’ve been thinking this through,” I say. “You wouldn’t bring it up unless you already had a framework. What do we know about her schedule?”
Vin leans forward, forearms resting on the table as the low glow of the Black Orchid settles around us. His expression is calm, deliberate. Focused.
“Tomorrow makes more sense than tonight. She’ll be at Indigo Blue. There’s an art installation for a friend. Public enough to blend in. Predictable without being rigid.”
I consider that. “I was prepared to move sooner,” I say. “But I agree. Timing matters more than speed. We only get one clean window.”
That’s it. Same stakes. Same intent. No hitman energy.
“Exactly.”
“How old is she, anyway?” I ask. The last time I remember hearing anything about her, she was a teenager. I know it’s been a while, but still, she has to be young.
“Twenty-five,” he says, not skipping a beat.
