I close my eyes.
Atlas. Bane. Zero.
I'm still here. I'm still here. I'm still—
∞∞∞
Atlas
The restaurant is private. Underground entrance, valet-only, the kind of place that doesn't advertise because the clientele doesn't need to be told it exists. White tablecloths. Candlelight. A sommelier who greets us by name even though we've never been here, because someone briefed him, because every detail of this evening has been choreographed.
We arrive together. The three of us. Armor on.
I'm in the charcoal suit—the one I wear to negotiations I intend to win. Zero is in black, head to toe, jaw set so tight I can see the muscle jumping from across the car. Bane is polished—navy, pocket square, the legitimate face—but his eyes are wrong. Too bright. Too sharp. A man wearing composure like a costume.
The rules are simple. I gave them in the car.
"Zero. You don't speak."
A grunt. Acknowledgment, not agreement.
"Bane. Follow my lead. Mirror my energy. If I'm calm, you're calm."
"And if you're not calm?"
"I will be."
I won't be. But the machine will run whether the man behind it is screaming or not. That's the deal.
We are here for our stepbrother. Family concern. Nothing more.
Talbot Kline is already seated when we arrive. Mid-fifties. Silver hair swept back, immaculate. A warm, practiced smile that belongs on a talk show host or a diplomat—the smile ofa man who's learned that charm is the most efficient form of violence. A man beside him I don't recognize—mid-forties, charcoal suit, warm eyes that don't match the company he keeps. An associate. Two security men stand near the wall. Discreet. Armed.
"Gentlemen." Talbot stands. Extends a hand. His grip is firm, dry. "Thank you for coming. Please."
We sit. Zero takes the chair farthest from Talbot—deliberate distance, his body angled away from the table. He hasn't spoken since the car. His jaw hasn't unclenched. He sits with his hands flat on his thighs, fingers spread, like he’s trying to hold himself in place. Every few seconds his eyes sweep the room—exits, security positions, angles of approach.
He's not here for dinner. He's here for reconnaissance.
Bane takes the seat beside me. Crosses his legs. Adjusts his pocket square. To anyone watching, he's the picture of composed wealth—relaxed shoulders, easy posture, the faint half-smile of a man who does this every day. But I see the tell. His left hand rests on the table, and the tendons are standing out like cables. The knuckles white. He's holding his composure the way you hold a live grenade.
Wine is poured. The waiter disappears.
"How's Richard?" Talbot asks, settling back. Casual. Like old friends catching up. "I hear he's been spending more time at the estate lately. Semi-retirement suits some men."
"He's well," I say. "Thank you for asking."
"And Margot? Lovely woman. I understand she's been involved with some gallery work downtown. The Harmon Foundation benefit, was it?"
The fact that he knows Margot's name makes Bane's composure flicker. I feel it beside me—a subtle shift, a held breath. Talbot doesn't miss it. His eyes move to Bane and linger there for half a second before returning to me.
"She stays busy," I say. Give him nothing.
"Family is so important." Talbot swirls his wine. "I've always admired the Graves operation. The way you've built on Richard's foundation. The Vancouver port arrangement was particularly elegant—what was the name of your contact there? Morrison? Morales?"
"Meyers," I say, because he already knows. Because correcting a detail he intentionally got wrong tells him less than refusing to answer.
"Meyers! Yes. Exceptional logistics man, from what I hear." He smiles.I know your people. I know your routes. I know everything about you.
