“The kind who doesn't like mysteries on his territory.”
“Eden's not your territory. Neither is this alley.” He shifted slightly. “But here we are anyway.”
“Here we are.” I moved closer, one step, testing. “You going to tell me what you were doing at Eden? Or do I need to make this uncomfortable?”
“It's already uncomfortable. You're just deciding whether to make it violent.”
The alley pressed in from both sides, the dead-end boxing him in behind, the grey London sky doing nothing to relieve the pressure building in my chest.
“What's your name?” I asked.
“You already know my name. You've been digging into my background since last night.” His mouth curved. “Callahan Mercer.”
“Dominic Rourke.”
“I know.” He smiled then, sharp. “Adrian Calloway's enforcer. Viktor Volkov's friend. The man who doesn't exist in any database but leaves shadows everywhere. You're careful. I respect that.”
“Respect doesn't explain Eden.”
“I was working.”
“Working on what?”
“What I do is none of your concern.”
My hands flexed, the urge to close the distance and pin him to the wall nearly overwhelming. “You made it my concern when you entered Eden without authorisation. When you followed someone at Viktor's wedding.”
“I belong everywhere information lives.” His gaze held mine, steady and challenging. “And I don't answer to you. Or Adrian. Or whoever else thinks London belongs to them.”
“You're crossing lines.”
“I've been crossing lines for years. That's how you catch people who operate above them.” One step forward, closing the distance to less than two metres. “And before you threaten me or try to intimidate me or whatever else men like you do, understand this: I know exactly who you are, what you do, and I'm still standing here.”
Stupid, fearless, or so focused on whatever he was hunting that self-preservation had become secondary. Possibly all three.
“What are you hunting?” I asked.
“Truth.”
“Specific truth. Specific target. Who?”
“My business.”
I moved before he could react — closed the distance, backed him into the alley wall, my body blocking every exit. Hand pressed to brick beside his head, caging him. Close enough to feel his heat, to smell coffee and rain and adrenaline.
“Make it my business,” I said. Voice low. “Or I make your life very difficult.”
He didn't flinch. Didn't try to escape. Just looked up at me with those mismatched eyes, and something shifted in his expression. Not fear. Not submission. Heat.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Pin me to this wall. Threaten me. I already know you're dangerous, and it's not going to make me talk.”
“What will?”
“Nothing.” His hand moved, palm flat over my heart, feeling it pound. “You're used to people being afraid of you. Used to your size and your reputation making civilians fold. But I'm not a civilian. I've been trained by people who make you look gentle.”
“That's what you're hunting,” I said. “Whoever killed your partner.”
“No. I'm hunting the system that let them get away with it. The corruption that turns evidence into smoke and witnesses into ghosts.” His hand pressed harder. “And if you're part of that system, if you're protecting someone who is, we have a problem.”
