"No."
The single word cuts through his rehearsed speech like a blade through silk. The valet blinks at me, his smile faltering intosomething confused and slightly concerned. "I'm... I'm sorry, sir?"
"You will not touch the vehicle." I meet his gaze directly, ensuring he understands this is not a negotiation. "Under any circumstances."
"Sir, it's just standard valet service—we do this for all the guests, and I promise we're very careful with?—"
"I will park it myself." I shift the car into drive, my foot hovering over the accelerator. The conversation is over. He simply has not realized it yet.
Colletta puts a hand on my arm. Her fingers are warm through the fabric of my shirt. "Kruk. It's fine. He's just doing his job."
"His job is unnecessary," I state, keeping my eyes on the valet, who still hasn't processed that this discussion has concluded.
"It's valet parking, Kruk. It'snormal." Colletta's voice has taken on that pleading quality she uses when she knows I'm right but wishes I would pretend otherwise for the sake of social convention.
"I do not trust him with the vehicle."
"Why not?" She sounds genuinely baffled, as if the reasoning isn't abundantly clear.
"He has weak hands." I glance at the valet's grip on his clipboard—loose, casual, the hold of someone who has never had to maintain control of anything more dangerous than a pen. "Insufficient strength. Poor situational awareness. He did not check the perimeter before approaching. He made himself vulnerable."
The valet's professional smile is starting to fracture at the edges, uncertainty creeping into his expression. "I assure you, sir, I'm fully trained in operating all types of vehicles, and we have full insurance coverage for any?—"
"No." The word is final. Absolute. There will be no further discussion on this matter.
I pull forward, ignoring his protests, and find a spot at the far end of the lot. Good sight lines. Clear exit route. Close to the tree line in case we need to disappear quickly.
Colletta is staring at me again.
"What," I say.
"You just... you can't just do that." Her voice wavers between exasperation and resignation, a tone I've come to recognize as uniquely hers when confronting the gulf between what she considers socially acceptable behavior and what I consider tactically sound decision-making.
"I already did." A statement of fact. The action is complete. There is no reversing it now.
"He was trying to help," she protests, though her conviction seems halfhearted at best. She knows as well as I do that intent is irrelevant when measured against capability.
"He was trying to take the vehicle." I keep my tone even, explaining what should be self-evident. "The vehicle contains my equipment."
"Your equipment." She repeats the words slowly, carefully, like she's testing their weight, dreading their implications. There's a pause—a dangerous one, filled with growing suspicion. I can see the exact moment awareness crystallizes in her expression.
"Affirmative."
Her gaze drops to the back seat, scanning the shadows there with increasing alarm. When she speaks again, her voice has become very small, very careful. "Please tell me you didn't bring the axe."
"I did not bring the axe." This is technically accurate. Precision in language is important.
Relief floods her face like sunrise breaking over a battlefield—premature, unearned, about to be violently interrupted by reality.
"It is in the trunk."
"KRUK."
"You did not specify which weapons were prohibited."
"I specified ALL weapons."
"Incorrect. You said no axe. I complied. The axe is not on my person."
