I look up and momentarily freeze.
Milo.
He's standing there in his usual hipster chic… skinny jeans, blazer, glasses perched on his nose. He’s smiling like nothing's wrong.
"Eddie! You're alive. ThankGod."
I glance quickly at Alexander—a subtle gesture, a small widen of my eyes. He stays seated, but his posture shifts: alert, ready.
Milo doesn't notice, pulling out the chair opposite me without asking.
"Where have you been?” he asks, curious but not overly suspicious. “The gallery's a mess. Police tape, questions. All the usual. But I’ll have it back up and running ASAP. Seriously though, where were you?”
"Staying with a relative out of town," I say, keeping my voice steady. "Needed to lay low after...everything."
He nods, leaning in. "Smart. The show's wrecked of course, but we can rebuild. You make new work, I'll get it back up. Your stuff's gold, Eddie. I mean that."
I force a smile, but my mind races. There’s an opportunity here. I can help Viktor.
"Speaking of the gallery,” I say, keeping it casual. “Are you still selling the building? You know, that guy who came in on the day of the shooting…"
Milo's expression flickers… a hint of surprise? Caution? Something else?
"No, actually. The offer fell through. Buyer backed out after the shooting. But..." He leans closer, voice dropping. "A new buyer is on the horizon. Bigger fish. Better money. And it could mean expansion for me. This buyer is a bit more civilized than the thug who you saw.Urgh. What an asshole he was."
"Who?" I ask, casual as I can.
He waves it off. "Details later. Just know, we'regood."
I nod, not pushing. "Great to see you, Milo, but I need to get back to work." I gesture at my sketchpad.
Milo stands, placing a hand on my wrist. It feels sleazy, lingering too long, squeezing my flesh ever so slightly.
"You got it, babe,” Milo says. “Call me when you're ready to sculpt. I’ll have a space arranged for you. We can do the math on costs later."
He leaves, the door tinkling behind him.
I exhale, shaky.
Alexander meets my eyes—questioning. I shake my head slightly… this is a matter for later. I can't wait to see Viktor, reveal what I've learned.
Lunch can't come soon enough.
I’m on my third coffee-choc and before I know it, a couple of hours later the bell above the café door chimes. I look up from my sketchpad just in time to see Viktor step inside, accompanied by an associate who I can only assume is Ivan.
The contrast between them is immediate: Viktor in his dark coat, broad shoulders filling the doorway, face set in that calm, unreadable mask he wears when he’s working. Ivan is behind him, leaner, sharper, eyes already scanning every corner of the room like he’s memorizing exits and potential threats. But as much as there is a contrast, I can tell that they are both very much from the same world.
Alexander is already here of course, still sitting at his table near the window with a black coffee he’s barely touched. He nods once to Viktor, a small gesture that carries weight.
Viktor’s gaze finds me instantly. Something in his expression softens, just for a second, before the hardness returns. He crosses the café in long strides, Ivan a silent shadow at his side. Robbie is behind the counter wiping down the espresso machine and he glances up, sees the two men, and his hand stills for a beat before he resumes cleaning.
“Back room,” Viktor says quietly, voice pitched for my ears alone. “Now.”
I close my sketchpad, slide it into my bag, and stand. Alexander is already moving, casual but deliberate, following us toward the narrow hallway behind the counter.
Robbie meets my eyes as we pass. He gives a small nod—go—and tells his fellow baristas he’ll be back shortly before falling in behind us.
The back room is cramped and cluttered: stacked boxes of coffee beans and syrups, a tiny table with three mismatched chairs, a single bulb overhead. It smells faintly of roasted beans and cleaning spray. Quite the combo.
