Same manicured hands.
Same oily, benevolent smile that makes my skin itch.
He’s flanked by two guards he absolutely should not have brought into neutral territory, both of them wearing jackets that hang just a little wrong at the shoulders and move like they’re hoping someone gives them an excuse to be violent.
Overconfident.
Sloppy.
He spots me.
His smile widens.
“Ms. Fierson,” he says, sliding into the booth across from me without asking. “You’re looking remarkably… intact, all things considered.”
“Sit down,” I reply flatly.
He blinks.
Then chuckles and settles back, folding his hands on the table like we’re about to pray.
“I have to admit,” he says, “when my people told me you wanted to meet, I assumed you’d finally come to your senses.”
“I did,” I say. “That’s why you’re here.”
His brow furrows faintly.
“I beg your pardon.”
I don’t raise my voice.
I don’t lean forward.
I don’t do anything dramatic at all.
I just tap my tablet screen once.
His shell corporations bloom across the display.
Port authority trusts.
Transit-adjacent development fronts.
A real estate acquisition web that radiates outward from Fierson District like a spider diagram drawn by someone with OCD and a very expensive law degree.
His smile twitches.
“You’ve been busy,” he says lightly.
“You laundered capital through Marrowline Holdings to buy excavation equipment,” I reply calmly. “Then you rerouted it through a freight trust in District Four to keep it off Glimner books. You thought nobody would notice because the trust technically doesn’t fall under Alliance jurisdiction.”
One of his guards shifts.
Varek’s eyes flick sideways.
Then back to me.
“You’re bluffing,” he says.
