He turns toward the door. Pauses. Then says, almost reluctantly: “Make it look like an accident.”
I grin, all teeth.
“It’ll be glorious.”
As the door hisses shut behind him, I tuck the chip into my vambrace and turn back to Sable.
Still out. Peaceful.
I brush my thumb across her knuckles.
“Rest up, sweetheart. I’m gonna burn their whole house down.”
CHAPTER 19
VOLTAR
The sky above Novaria Prime is the color of spoiled cream, smeared with streaks of neon from the hoverlanes crisscrossing the clouds like drunk spiderwebs. This city’s pulse never slows—always flickering, buzzing, lying. Kinda like the bastard I’m about to have dinner with.
Big Otto.
The name’s a joke. He’s not big. Not in the way that matters. Not where I come from. His kind of “big” comes with lapel pins, power lunches, and fingers in too many pies that taste like blood. But he’s important, at least by Novaria standards. Dangerous in a suit. Deadly in a boardroom. And tonight, he’s waiting for me like we’re old friends, not two enemies passing time till the knives come out.
I step off the skydeck lift, boots thunking against polished obsidian tile. The restaurant glows like a jewel box—glass walls, floating candlelight, the kind of view that makes billionaires feel spiritual. Every table’s spaced just enough to whisper sins in peace. The air smells like grilled opulence and artificially scented oxygen. Real quiet. Too quiet.
Otto sits dead center, dressed like he’s playing cosplay as a 20th-century Earth gangster. Pinstripes, red pocket square, fatgold watch hanging off his wrist like it’s strangling him. His smile’s the kind you see on predators about to pretend they’re gentlemen.
“Voltar!” he says, standing up like it’s a performance, hands out like we’re hugging. I don’t take the bait.
I nod once. Grunt. “Otto.”
He gestures to the chair across from him like it’s a throne. “Please. Sit. You want anything? They do this roasted mammoth shank—absolutely divine. Goes down like sin, comes back like memory.”
I lower myself into the chair, which groans under the weight of my armor. I’m not even wearing my full plate, just the chest and shoulder gear, but I still feel like a tank in a china shop. I glance around. No diners. No servers. Just a single droid bartender polishing the same glass for the last ten minutes like it’s got secrets. We’re alone.
Of course we are.
“I don’t eat during negotiations,” I say, folding my arms and leaning back. “Makes digestion unpredictable.”
Otto chuckles, fat fingers brushing invisible lint from his sleeve. “Fair. Fair. You always were a practical one. That’s what I like about you. Direct. Efficient. No nonsense.”
“Is that why you tried to have my girl executed in her own apartment?” I ask flatly.
He doesn’t flinch. Just tilts his head, like he’s disappointed I brought that up before dessert.
“Misunderstandings happen in our line of work,” he says smoothly. “You know how it is. Orders get fuzzy. Hired help gets excitable.”
“You mean Tugun.”
“Ah,” he sighs, “Tugun. Flamboyant as ever, but effective.”
“Didn’t look too effective last time I saw Sable standing upright and very much alive.”
That finally earns me a twitch. His eye flickers. Just for a second.
I press on.
“So. What’s the angle tonight, Otto? You summon me to your fancy meat tower just to trade barbs and watch me sulk into my appetizer?”
