"Nicholas." His voice fills the small space the way it fills every room, heavy with the certainty of someone who's never been told no by anyone who mattered. "I thought that was you through the window. Don't usually see you on this side of town."
"Marcus." I pick up my coffee again, more to hold than to drink. "Just meeting someone."
"Business?"
"Personal."
Voss raises an eyebrow. The expression sits on his face like it's been rehearsed, one part curiosity, two parts calculation. The Alpha waves at the barista without looking in her direction. "Personal doesn't usually put that look on your face. Must be someone important."
"Could be." I focus on the lingering warmth from the mug, already hating this Alpha in my space. He’s ruthless in business and just annoying everywhere else. "If he shows up."
Voss glances at me, his mouth curving into something that wants to be a smile. "Stood up?"
"Something came up."
"Mm." The barista brings Voss an espresso he hasn't ordered, which tells me he comes here often enough that they know his drink. He takes a sip and settles back in the chair like he owns it. Probably the building too. "A word of advice, Nicholas, from someone who's been in this business longer than you. People approach men like us for one reason."
"That being?"
"Money." Voss turns the espresso cup in its saucer. "We're useful to people. We solve problems. And the ones who come knocking on our doors with their personal situations and complicated histories are usually looking for a check wrapped in a handshake."
My jaw tightens. "This isn't that."
"It's always that." Voss takes another unhurried sip, watching me over the rim. "You're a smart man, Cavallero. One of the sharper investors I've worked with. Don't let someone with a pretty face and a sad story drain your accounts while they're draining your—"
"Marcus." My voice drops low enough that the single name carries weight without volume. "This person isn't like that."
Voss holds my gaze for a beat, then shrugs. "Your call." He drains the espresso and stands, buttoning his coat with one hand. "I've got a meeting at the boardwalk in twenty. We should get lunch sometime, catch up on the Harborview deal."
"Sure."
"And Nicholas." He pauses at the edge of the table, looking down at me with an expression that could pass for paternal concern if you didn't know what lives behind it. "Be careful. People are very good at making you feel needed right before they take what they came for."
He leaves, the door swinging shut behind him as the warmth settles back into the room, the gust of cold air and expensive cologne fading into espresso and cinnamon.
Be careful.The warning echoes in the space Voss left behind, settling against the ache in my chest. I've been careful for two years. Careful means silence, distance, and sitting in my apartment with Wilson's number in my phone and my thumb hovering over the dial button every night before putting it away. Careful means watching my brother lose his mind when Wilson disappeared, listening to Sebastian rage about the bite removal like a man who'd lost property instead of a person.
That was how I found out Wilson was free. Sebastian calling me at 2 AM, drunk and furious, spitting about how Wilson had gone behind his back and had the bite ripped out by some underground doctor. My brother lost his temper and handedme the only piece of information that mattered: Wilson was no longer his.
I waited. Weeks turned into months, then two years. Wilson didn't call. Didn't text. Didn't show up at any of the places I made sure to linger, the restaurants we used to go to, the parks we walked through that year before Sebastian, the coffee shops where Wilson used to study. I orbited the edges of his old life hoping he'd drift back into range.
He never did. And the worst part of careful is that I don't know where he ended up. I don't know if he's safe, if he's eating, if he's sleeping through the night or waking up gasping the way I imagine he does when I'm lying in the dark at 3 AM constructing worst-case scenarios.
Just over two years of silence and all I have is a phone number that resurfaced this morning like a message in a bottle washing up on a shore I'd stopped checking.
And then, today he stood on the sidewalk across from me and couldn't cross the street. Fuck, Voss. I’d give Wilson whatever he needed just to spend a few more minutes with him, to see that he was okay and that he’s thriving.
I pick my phone up and text Wilson just four words.
Whenever you're ready, Will.
I'll wait for his answer. I've been waiting two years. A little longer won't kill me.
Probably.
12
Wilson
