“And you just… switch?” I ask.
“I do not switch,” he corrects smoothly. “I adapt.”
He gestures vaguely toward the walls.
“This,” he says, “is legacy.”
Then toward his boots near his office door.
“And that,” he adds, “is survival.”
Spike studies him for a long second.
“Must be exhausting,” Bones mutters.
Maverick shrugs lightly.
“It would be,” he says, “if either version were false.”
The room quiets.
Because that’s the thing about Maverick…It’s not a mask.
It’s both.
Silk and steel. Boardroom and battlefield.
He leans forward slightly, the warmth gone from his expression now.
“But enough about décor,” he says. “Let us return to the matter of someone attempting to ignite a war between us.”
And just like that…The Don replaces the biker.
And the air in the room tightens.
“Three nights ago,” Maverick begins, fingers steepled, “the Italians engaged a rival faction in Brooklyn. Their weapons misfired.”
No one moves.
“Seven of my men were transported to the hospital,” he continues calmly. “Non-fatal injuries. Public. Messy. Very unfortunate.”
Maverick doesn’t blink.
“Last night,” he goes on, “a very public confrontation between the Italians and the Iron Shadows took place at a restaurant in Manhattan. Voices were raised. Accusations made. Threats exchanged. Several patrons were quite… uncomfortable.”
Skip grins. “We do love dinner theater.”
Maverick ignores him.
“The argument concluded with both parties storming out separately,” he says. “Witnesses have already begun repeating the story. It is spreading exactly as intended.”
He lowers his hands onto the desk.
The heavy Don ring glints on his finger…the one Spike practically forced back on him after the whole coming out as a Don thing.
“Crusher and my brother are currently at the estate,” Maverick says smoothly. “Relaxing and letting the illusion settle.”
“Letting our enemies believe we’re fractured,” Spike mutters.
