I offer her a small smile, then sign the slip of paper in the tray. I take a few twenties from the stack on the table, leaving them as a tip before leaning back in my chair to wait for Lars.
Beside me, Lars is taking his time. He hands his phone to the blonde, and she types something in, the edges of her mouth curving into an eager smile.
“I’ll see you tomorrow—” Lars glances down at the phone. “Charlotte.”
Charlotte stands, her tiny dress dangling from her hand and a wad of cash clenched in the other. “Thank you, Carl. I’ll be counting the hours until I see you again.”
Carl. Of course. I smother a snort, biting the inside of my cheek as she sashays away. I’ve seen this game play out a thousand times. She won’t be counting the hours, just the cash she stuffed in her bag, but that’s the way it works.
Lars pulls on his suit jacket, buttoning it with one hand while straightening his tie with the other. “Why can’t I meet a girl like her outside of a place like this?”
I don’t even glance at him as I slide my chair back. “Because you never leave places like this long enough to find one.”
His laugh is sharp, though it fades when Charlotte’s out of sight. He turns his full attention to me, his blue eyes narrowing just a fraction.
“You’re one to talk,” he counters. “When was the last time you had anything beyond a night of fucking with a woman?”
The black carpulls up to the Garrison Hotel, one of the few places in this city that meets my standards. If I’m not sleeping in my own bed, it better be somewhere with proper service and a mattress worth remembering.
The lobby is polished and tasteful with clean lines, soft lighting, the kind of place that whispers class. Lars falls in step beside me, looking as worn as I feel. Work may drain us both, but there’s no room for complaining in this business.
“I’m going to grab a drink at the bar,” I say. “You in?”
He shakes his head, loosening his tie as we approach the elevator bank. “Not tonight. I’ve got a call at nine about the Tuesday cargo, and I don’t need to be hungover for that.”
Fair. Lars knows when to focus, which is one of the reasons I keep him close. “Wake me after. We’ll grab some food.”
“Deal,” he says, giving me a slap on the shoulder. Then, with a smirk, “Don’t drink the place dry, boss.”
He steps into the elevator, leaving me to head for the bar. The space is low-key, tucked neatly off the lobby, with a solid wood bartop and just enough seating to fill the room without feeling crowded.
I take a stool at the far end, out of the way but with a good vantage point. The bartender approaches swiftly, a practiced smile in place. “What’ll it be, sir?”
“Port,” I say, offering nothing more.
He sets my drink down a moment later, deep crimson and viscous. I take a sip, letting the sweetness roll over my tongue. A quiet end to the night, a rare luxury in my world.
Lars calls me the uptight one, says I don’t let loose enough. Maybe he’s right. But I carry the weight of an entire organization on my back, there’s no room for recklessness. Every move I make is under a microscope, every decision judged. And my mistakes don’t just waste time or risk products, they could risk lives.
The bar radiates softly with conversation, but I don’t pay much mind. Tonight’s business is over; tomorrow will bring more of it. For now, I let the warmth of the port settle into my chest.
Even in another city, my instincts don’t take a night off. My eyes continuously scan the room, mapping every detail, every potential exit, every unfamiliar face. Detroit might be miles from my own territory, but proximity doesn’t erase the risks. It wouldn’t take much for someone in one of the local Syndicates to recognize me, start asking questions, or worse, assume the wrong things.
The port is good—rich, aged, worth every dollar—but it is nothing compared to the sight that just stepped into my line of vision.
Her.
The sight of her steals the air from my lungs. This isn’t the neon-lit version of her from the club, no pink sequins, no calculated flirtation for the crowd. This is her stripped of the performance, and somehow, she’s even more lethal.
That black dress doesn’t just fit her—it claims her. Every seam follows the shape of her body as if tailored to my tastes alone. The neckline plunges low enough to offer a hint of what I’ve already imagined far too many times in the past hour, the swell of her breasts rising and falling with each breath. Her hips sway with precision, each step in those stilettos stretching her legs into something designed to ruin men.
And ruin is exactly what she could do.
I’ve built my life on control. On never letting desire dictate my decisions. But watching her now, I can feel the leash straining, fraying at the edges. I’m not a man who believes in chance encounters. Everything has a purpose. Every meeting, a reason.Seeing her here is no accident—it’s a shift in the current, a door swinging open. And when opportunity looks at me with eyes like hers, I don’t hesitate. I take.
Her presence reshapes the room, turning the air heavier, the light sharper, as if she’s stepped out of a noir fantasy designed to test my restraint. Every line of her body is exquisite, but it’s the way she carries herself that makes my chest tighten. She’s beauty sharpened to a point, and I want every dangerous inch of her.
She glances toward the bar, her gaze sliding right past me without pause. My grip tightens on the stem of my glass, but I don’t move.
