He studies my face like he’s weighing whether to push. He doesn’t. He never does, and I think that’s what I love about him.
“That’s good.” There’s a sense of finality in his words. “You deserve to be happy, Rowan.”
Something tight loosens in my chest.
He releases my hands and leans back, his earlier energy returning in a controlled burst. “Speaking of deserving things,” he lowers his voice conspiratorally. “I have a surprise for you.”
My pulse picks up immediately. “What sort of surprise?”
“A good one,” he replies. “One that took me several favors I may never financially recover from.”
I still.
He reaches into his bag and slides a folded piece of paper across the table, keeping his hand over it for a beat. Not teasing. Just careful.
“I finally got something on Delaney.” Thisisa surprise. “Not everything. But… it’s something.”
My fingers curl beneath the table.
“What kind of something?” I ask evenly.
“A residential address. Or one of them, at least. They move around a lot—him and his wife. Overseas travel. Long stays. But this place? It’s consistent enough to matter.”
I don’t touch the paper yet.
“And,” he continues, “he frequents a club. Very exclusive. Very private. The Slay Pen.”
The name sounds heavy and dangerous and wrong.
“It sounds like an underground dungeon,” I tell him.
“It could be,” he muses. “Entry is so exclusive, I don’t know how you’d even get near it,” Florencio adds.
“I’ll find a way,” I hum, looking down at the addresses on the paper.
“I don’t see how. Membership is locked down tight. Money,references, NDAs. It’s the kind of place that thrives on not being seen.”
“All good. I don’t need to go inside,” I say quietly.
He blinks. “You don’t?”
“No.” I take the paper now, folding it once and slipping it into my bag. “People make mistakes on the way inandout. I’m sure I’ll find something.”
Florencio exhales slowly, eyes sharpening. “Rowan…”
“I know,” I say gently. “I do.”
He searches my face, concern threading through his expression. “You’re sure about this?”
I meet his gaze. “I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t.”
He nods once. Trust, plain and unadorned. He doesn’t ask why. Doesn’t ask what I plan to do with it. That’s not his way.
“That’s all I’ve got,” Flo tells me. “And… for what it’s worth—I believe you’ll use it the right way.”
I swallow past the sudden lump in my throat. “Thank you.”
“For the record,” he adds, lighter now, “if this ends with you needing bail money, I expect front-page credit.”
