Ari
“The murder of a philosopher won’t go unanswered, of course,” Isla says.
“The question,” Alexander Reed replies, “is what our answer will be.”
The man finishes his croissant in two bites and then leans back in his chair, tapping his fingers idly on a black folder on the table before him, his eyes turned toward the windows instead of toward Rudra, Ari, and Isla. The hotel’s lush courtyard is typically a bustling place, thick walls of ivy and pots of towering ficus trees a backdrop to birthday revelers and young couples, Sunday brunch aficionados and people trying to impress their in-laws. But today, the entire restaurant is empty and paid for, save for the guardsmen—polemists waiting for Reed’s commands—and a pair of waiters standing stiffly on the other side of the French doors, watching for any sign that Reed might wave them over.
Across the table, Rudra sips his coffee. There is no evidence of his rage at Ari from the previous night, no acknowledgment of the pinprick wounds that still encircle Ari’s neck. Neither is there any sign of Ari’s panic attack, of the way he fought for air and begged for help. Today, aside from the dark circles bruising the delicate skin under his eyes, Ari manages to look composed and graceful, his face turned away from the man.
Isla glances at Ari in concern, although she knows better than to ask about his wounds. Her eyes dart to Reed. Reed is in a difficult mood today, the kind that’s hard for them to read—unhappy but calm, a temper waiting to happen, and Ari can’t guess what might set him off. So he and Isla stay quiet, paying attention to the direction of the conversation, letting the man lead.
Now Reed holds up a hand, and one of the waiters hurries over. “More coffee,” he says.
“Of course, sir,” the waiter answers, and scurries away.
Reed nods at Ari as he looks through the contents of the folder, theedges tilted up so that Ari can’t quite see. “Well,” he says, “what should our response be? We’ve forced Grand Central into a forbidden act.”
“Not everyone agrees that Grand Central committed the crime,” Isla says.
“Enough are assuming it after our recent hostilities with them,” Rudra says.
Reed doesn’t look at Rudra. “What’s an equivalent retaliation to killing a philosopher?”
Ari doesn’t answer right away. His mind is still on Dominique. Last night, he’d jolted repeatedly out of nightmares of sitting in the library with her, studying, their heads together. Him, reaching over to ask her for help. Her, pointing out a paragraph to him in a book. Him, thanking her. Her, smiling encouragingly at him, touching his shoulder in reassurance. And then it’s night in the library, and she’s heading into the secret study beyond the black door, and he’s filled with a sudden terror that she’ll be hurt if she goes in there, but she’s already gone and he’s pounding on the door, screaming for her. He can still feel her name on his tongue when he bolts awake, trembling all over. For a second, he’s relieved that it was only a dream. Then he remembers, and everything crashes around him all over again.
His thoughts cycle onto Sam. She was so resplendent that evening in her pale blue dress, and Ari watched her from a distance, overcome with desire, wanting more than anything to go up to her, take her hand, pull her into a dance with him. He was such a fool that he hadn’t considered why she might have been chosen to attend the conference, that she would end the night by leaving Dominique’s body lying on the cobblestones of an alley, like trash.
In the tense silence that follows, Rudra says, “A philosopher hasn’t been murdered in over a decade. If Grand Central senses a hostile tide from enough syndicates, they might realize they’ve stepped out too far and back down.”
“And then what?” Reed says.
“How many sides can Grand Central handle an attack from?” Rudra says with a shrug, looking on as the waiter arrives to pour more coffee into their cups. “The Mengs say we should find and execute every philosopher in Grand Central. Belle Epoque already wants more details of what happened. Grand Central can’t handle a war that pulls in too many directions. They’re already fighting a losing battle against Doherty in the mayoral election.”
“And then what?” Reed repeats, looking calmly at Rudra.
Reed’s voice is too quiet, and Rudra shifts uncomfortably. Again, Ari marvels at how terrifying the man can be when in Ari’s presence, knowing who he can intimidate, and then how much he can shrink before Reed, knowing the limits of his power.
“Pressure Diamond Taylor down,” Rudra says, forcing his voice to sound firmer. “Set a meeting to discuss reparations for us.”
“Reparations.”
“Yes, sir.”
Reed puts his coffee down. “Reparations are compensation given to victims who have suffered injustice.” He looks thoughtfully at Rudra. “Is that what we are? Victims?”
Now Rudra knows he has misstepped, and he straightens, trying to recover. “Of course not,” he says. “But reparations—”
“No negotiations,” Reed cuts him off, and the man stills. “We aren’t inviting them to a fucking dance. We’re annihilating them.” He sneers. “You think so small, Rudra.” The light glints against his glasses as he leans forward. His voice steels. “So, tell me again. What shall we do in response?”
Rudra’s face has paled, and he tries to hide his reaction behind a sip of coffee. At the pause, Isla looks at Reed and says, “Diamond has been relying on Mozart for all of her recent retaliations against us.”
“And?” Reed says.
Ari’s heart squeezes and, for a moment, he glances at Isla, but there’s nothing he can do to stop her. “And it seems to me,” Isla continues, “that we should be striking at the source.”
“She’s not the source,” Ari says instinctively. “Diamond is.”
“You know what I mean,” Isla replies. “Diamond leans more and more on her.”
