"How long have you been playing? Here, I mean. At this restaurant."
"Since I was a teenager." I rested my hands on the keys. "My father owned this place before he died. I started playing here when I was sixteen."
"Ah. So you know this building well."
"I know the piano well." A slight tilt of my head. Helpless. Charming. "The building is harder to navigate, but I manage with this." I gestured toward my cane, propped against the bench. "The new owners are kind enough not to move things around on me too much."
He laughed. A short, controlled sound, more acknowledgment than amusement. "Of course. I did not mean to suggest?—"
"You're fine." I let the smile soften. "I'm used to the questions."
He went quiet. He was studying me. I could feel the weight of his gaze moving over my face, my eyes, the way I held myself on the bench. Reading my body language the way I read sound. Searching for the seams in my mask.
"The acoustics in this room are remarkable," he said. Casual. Like a man making small talk about architecture. "You can hear conversations quite clearly from here, I'd imagine."
My fingers pressed lightly against the keys. Not hard enough to make sound. Just enough to feel the ivory against my fingertips. It anchored me.
"Sometimes," I said. "Honestly, I've learned to tune out the distractions most of the time and just focus on the music."
"Hmm," he murmured. "It's good you can do that, playing in a place like this."
"It took some practice." I played a soft chord. A-flat major. Warm, uncomplicated. The musical equivalent of a shrug.
He was quiet. Then his weight shifted and I heard the slight rustle of fabric as he straightened.
"It was nice meeting you, Raven. I'm sure I'll see you again."
I smiled, unsurprised that he knew my name. "Enjoy your evening."
His footsteps continued on toward the restrooms. Measured and unhurried.
I sat at the piano and held the smile for five more seconds, then dropped it. My jaw ached from the performance.
He'd noticed the pause.
The three seconds between his question about acoustics and my answer. The split-second stall where my brain sorted through responses and picked the safe one.
But he'd caught it.
And I knew he'd carry it straight back to Viktor. But it wasn't proof of anything, so I continued on like nothing had happened.
I played my second set—Chopin's Ballade No. 1, the passage where the left hand carries a sustained bass line and the right hand spins a melody so delicate the room leans in—and that's when I heard it.
Two of Viktor's men were sitting in the back booth. And now, suddenly, they were talking.
And I could hear every word.
"...the Galveston route is compromised…Moving to Freeport…Viktor confirmed it. Thursday night, a warehouse off FM 523." A pause. Ice against glass. "Three containers. Same supplier. New driver."
The details were crisp and specific, pitched at the precise frequency that traveled across the room's acoustics and landed in my ears perfectly.
I kept playing and gave no indication that I'd heard anything. My fingers didn't falter. The Chopin poured from me on muscle memory so deeply embedded my hands could have played it while the restaurant burned down around me. And while my hands played, my mind did what it had been doing for over a year.
I took the information—Freeport. FM 523. Thursday. Three containers. New driver—and locked it away with everything else I'd learned about the men who'd ruined my father's restaurant.
But something was wrong.
Later that night, I stood in my kitchen and replayed the conversation I'd overheard. Not the words this time. But the sound. The texture. The delivery.
