I closed my eyes for a moment. And Alena's face appeared in the dark—not crying, not broken like she'd been on Klaus's screen. The way she used to look at me. Trusting. Believing I was better than this.
In that moment I understood. This wasn't my life. This was temporary. A disguise I'd wear until I could burn it all down. Okay then. Let's go.
I sat down across from him, leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "I really don't want to be here, man," I said quietly. My voice was flat. Tired. Like I was already bored of the violence I hadn't even committed yet. "And I really, really don't want to do what I'll have to do if you don't give the money. Believe me. So please… behave."
The guy started shaking—full-body tremors, sweat beading on his forehead. "Of course," he stammered. "I would never steal from you. Never! I'm loyal!"
I stood up, smiled—genuine this time, because it worked without a single punch—and patted his cheek, not gently. "Perfect."
I turned to the lieutenants. "Okay. I'll be in the car."
They followed a minute later, exchanging looks I didn't bother to read. But as we walked to the SUV, I felt a presence at my shoulder. The hacker. He'd stayed quiet the whole trip, just observing. Now he matched my pace.
"Heard you handled that clean," he said quietly. Just loud enough for me to hear, not the others. "No blood. Smart."
I glanced at him. He met my eyes for exactly two seconds. Long enough to say something without saying it. Then he pulled ahead, climbed into the front seat with the driver.
But as the door closed, he'd left something on the seat beside me. A business card. Plain white. Just a phone number. No name.
I pocketed it before the lieutenants noticed.
First thread.
• • •
Evening dragged us back toward Manhattan. The sun was bleeding out over the skyline when the SUV finally stopped—not at the safe house, but at the penthouse tower. 9 PM on the dot. The elevator opened straight into the suite, and I stepped out ready to collapse, maybe shower off the day, maybe just stare at the wall until sleep took me.
Instead, I froze.
The lights were low, warm. The dining table set like something out of a magazine—crystal, silver, candles flickering. Klaus sat at the head in his wheelchair, oxygen tank discreetly tucked away, looking almost healthy in the dim glow. A single place setting opposite him. Waiting for me.
"Dinner," he said, gesturing to the chair. "Family tradition. Father and son. We talk."
I sat.
The guards disappeared—silent as always, melting into the shadows of the hallway. A woman appeared—older, silent, professional—served the food and vanished like smoke. Khinkali. Satsivi. Pkhali. Wine poured into heavy crystal glasses that probably cost more than my first car.
Klaus raised his glass. "To blood."
I didn't drink.
He drank anyway. Set the glass down carefully, watching me over the rim.
"You did well today," he said. "The debtor paid in full. No violence needed. Smart. Efficient. Like me when I was young."
I stayed silent.
He leaned back, studying me like I was a painting he'd commissioned. "You want to know about her. Your mother."
My jaw tightened.
He saw it. Nodded. "Fair. You deserve the truth. From me."
He took another sip of wine. Coughed once—wet, deep, the sound of a man drowning from the inside—but waved off my instinctive move to help. "I met her in London. Nineteen eighty-nine. She was twenty. Beautiful. Innocent. English-Norwegian blood—pale skin, dark hair, eyes like winter sky. Worked in a bookshop near Portobello. I was… between jobs. London was good for business then."
He smiled at the memory, eyes distant, seeing something I'd never know. "I saw her and thought—why not? Maybe I could have something normal. Something soft. A woman who didn't know guns or blood or the life. Maybe I could love her. Protect her. Keep her clean."
He paused. Looked at me. Really looked.
