I nod, sipping again. The burn sharpens my thoughts.
"Give me your thoughts,” I say. “Two months back, state politician. Harry Caulfield, you heard of him? He tried leaning on me. Wanted in on a deal, some backroom favor. I rebuffed him.Hard. He's ambitious, eyes on governor. And get this… he'sbeen sniffing around property downtown. Same area as those galleries I was buying."
Ivan's eyes narrow.
"Caulfield? The party boy? Yeah, I know of him. He's got fingers in a lot of pies. Dirty ones. If he's expanding his portfolio, and you blocked him..."
"Possible." I set the glass down. "Verypossible. Hitting me disrupts the buy, clears the board for him. And, fuck, it could be he’s working with a family who didn’t’ tell him to take a running jump."
Ivan drains his drink.
"We track him tonight,” Ivan says. “See what shakes loose. If he's the source..."
I meet his gaze. "Pull the trigger if needed. No loose ends. If in doubt, take him out."
We finish our whiskies in silence, the bar's murmur a backdrop to the plan forming. Caulfield's known for his nightlife—clubs, boys, excess. Easy to find a party-loving fool like him on a Friday. We'll shadow, corner him quiet. Interrogate. End it if he talks… or maybe if he doesn't.
I pay the tab, and we slip out the back exit into the alley.
Night's fully fallen now, city alive with lights and shadows. Ivan vanishes into the crowd one way, I go the other. We'll link up later, tails clean.
The walk clears my head. Eddie's face flashes in my mind, how he was nervous but trusting this morning. He and Robbie better be behaving. Tomorrow, if this pans out, I can start unravelingthe mess. And once this is over, I can protect him properly, give the boy everything he’s ever dared to desire. I can find that studio I promised him.
But first, hunt.
Caulfield's last party might be tonight.
I hail another cab, give an address near his usual haunts.
The city pulses around me, oblivious… but not for long.
A few hours pass in the city’s restless underbelly—bars, back alleys, quick exchanges with contacts who owe me favors or fear me more than the devil himself.
Ivan and I move like shadows, piecing together fragments until the trail points to one place…Zane’s House, a trendy private club across town, velvet ropes and VIP booths, the kind of spot where politicians, criminals, and influencers pretend the lines between their worlds don’t blur.
Harry Caulfield is there tonight.Confirmedsighting.
Word is he’s holding court, surrounded by boys, hangers-on, and his closest allies—some in suits, some with concealed carry permits and felony records.
Ivan and I approach from the service side. The kitchen entrance is tucked in a narrow alley, delivery vans parked crooked, dumpsters reeking of old grease and spilled wine. Ivan knocks twice—short, sharp. A dishwasher opens the door, sees our faces, and steps aside without a word.
Money or fear… either works. But both guarantees you the best silence.
We slip through the bustling kitchen—steam rising from pots, knives flashing, orders shouted over sizzling grills—and emerge into the club proper.
Zane’s House is alive. Bass thumps through the floor, colored lights sweep across bodies on the dance floor below. Upstairs balconies overlook the chaos, roped-off VIP sections glowing with bottle service and laughter. The air smells of expensive cologne, spilled champagne, and anticipation of indulgence.
We move like we belong—Ivan in a dark suit jacket, me in black coat and gloves.
No one stops us. We’re ghosts in the crowd. Dashing and deadly in one lethal package.
“Upstairs,” I mutter, nodding toward the balcony. “Roped area. Caulfield’s there.”
Ivan scans the crowd, eyes cold and methodical. “Bodyguards. Two at the stairs, two more on the landing. Caulfield’s in the corner. Three boys, one man with a phone. Look at him, swaying from side to side. He’s drunk, high, or both.”
Good. Drunk men make mistakes.
We climb the spiral staircase, casual, like we’re heading to our own table. The first bodyguard—a thick-necked guy in a cheap suit—steps forward, hand raised. “Private area, sir?—”
