I let the pause sit long enough to make it real. “I can,” I say.
Her brow lifts slightly. “Do you want to?”
I smile without warmth. “Don’t get bold.”
Her mouth twitches. “You asked.”
I pour the third whiskey, and this one is the one I usually keep reserved. I push it toward her and watch what she does. She doesn’t reach for it right away. She studies the color and the slow legs along the glass. “You don’t give this one to everyone, do you?” she says.
“No,” I answer.
“Then why me?” she asks, and her voice stays calm even as her eyes sharpen.
I lean forward and lower my voice. “You spoke about fentanyl like you’ve buried someone from it.”
Her face stays still, then she answers with a single line. “I’ve seen what it does.”
I don’t ask who or where or give her the comfort of digging into her past like it’s mine to pick through. I just nod once. “Drink,” I tell her.
She takes the sip, and this time, she lets her eyes close for half a second, then she opens them and looks straight at me. “That’s clean,” she says.
“It is,” I reply.
“It’s also dangerous,” she adds.
My mouth twitches. “Everything worth keeping is.”
She watches me, then she sets the glass down and lets her fingers rest on the rim. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Good,” I answer. “Expectations make people stupid.”
“And what did you expect?” I ask, and I keep the question soft without making it kind.
She meets my eyes and doesn’t look away. “A man who rules on chaos,” she says. “A man who lets his people rot as long as the money keeps moving.”
I lean back. “And you found what?”
“A man who keeps everything tight,” she says, then she glances toward the door where Roarke stands. “But also a man who kills without remorse.” Roarke’s eyes narrow, and I raise my hand again, and he stills.
Quinn holds my gaze. She doesn’t soften the point.
“You killed someone today,” she says, voice flat.
I don’t pretend she’s wrong.
“You saw my knuckles,” I answer.
She nods. I take another sip of my whiskey and set the glass down, then I clasp my hands together, fingers interlaced, and I keep my posture relaxed. “He hit one of mine,” I say.
“So you took a knee,” she answers, and her tone doesn’t shift.
I study her for a beat, then I nod. “I did,” I admit.
She doesn’t flinch, and that steadiness pulls at something in me that I don’t like naming. “Does that scare you?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “It tells me what you do when you’re angry.”
I let a quiet breath out through my nose and keep my eyes on her. “Why are you really here?” I ask, because this is the whole point of the evening—to see if the strongest alcohol in the land gets her to slip up and give me her truth.
