Chapter 1
Bastien Montclaire
The world forgets topunish some people. That’s where I come in.
The hotel lounge thrums around me, jazz drifting through the air. Soft amber light bounces off polished mahogany and brass. Expensive whiskey fills cut crystal glasses, beads of sweat sliding down their sides.
In the corner, a woman laughs, all teeth and red lipstick. The man beside her wears a wedding band that catches the light as his hand creeps up her thigh. But this isn’t a place for wives. It’s where wedding vows go to die.
Shadows sink deep into a place like this. No one stares too long at what they can’t drink, smoke, or fuck.
I sit at the bar, posture loose, gaze steady. Calm, but never unaware. I watch everything.
Dark clothes, no logos, chosen to blend into the crowd. I want to avoid attention.
And yet, attention always comes my way.
Women notice me. It doesn’t matter how quiet I am or how littlespace I take up. They look. They linger. And they don’t understand how close they are to darkness without meaning to be.
The bartender polishes glasses until they gleam, a tired businessman loosens his tie, a woman scrolls for a text that won’t come. I watch without watching. A predator’s trick.
A cigarette rests between my fingers, unlit, familiar. I gave it up years ago but never really let it go.
There are a lot of things I’ve never let go.
The door opens, and humid air rushes in from the street, brushing the back of my neck. I know who it is without looking. I’ve kept an eye on the clock, and he’s right on time.
Grant Holloway. Mid-fifties. Pressed suit. Grief lives in the hollows behind his eyes, and in the deep lines that never fade. He’s a man stitched together by grief and vengeance.
He hesitates three steps in, and his eyes flicker toward the bar. He moves toward me and sits, leaving one empty seat between us, just as I instructed. Enough distance to appear as strangers, enough proximity to seal a deal intended to balance the scales.
Holloway sinks onto the barstool. The bartender drifts over, towel slung across one shoulder. “What can I get you?”
There’s a long pause before he speaks. “Macallan 18, if you have it. Neat.”
The bartender gives a small nod. “You've got it.”
Holloway keeps his eyes fixed on the bar, shoulders drawn tight. He’s holding himself together by sheer will. Poor bastard looks like he might come apart if he breathes too hard.
“I’ve been sober for eight years,” he says. “Seems longer tonight.”
“Eight years is something worth keeping. Don’t let tonight take it from you.”
He slides a small black bag off his shoulder and places it on the stool between us. “It’s all in there.”
I glance down. The bag’s half unzipped, neat stacks of cash visible inside. Half now, half later. That’s the deal.
On top is a photo of a beautiful girl, an angelic blonde with pale blue eyes. Her smile is sweet and innocent.
That girl didn’t know what kind of monster awaited her in the dark.
Beside the photo is a USB thumb drive. I’m certain it contains filth that doesn’t wash off.
Holloway clears his throat, jaw tight, but whatever he means to say dies before it leaves his mouth.
“Go on. Say the words out loud. It helps. Trust me.”
His voice scrapes out like broken glass. “I want him dead. No police. No trial. No mercy.”
