“Marku.” Dushku’s voice comes with a warning. But it’s too late and too mild. It doesn’t matter because the words are already in the air, and the air is already poisoned.
I look at Marku. I don’t speak. I don’t need to.
I memorize his face. The exact distance from where I’m sitting to where he’s sitting, the shape of his filthy mouth that forms words about a woman he will never touch, will never speak to, and will never see again.
“The woman,” I say, and my voice is steady in the way that a wire is steady before it snaps, “is not available for discussion.”
The room recalibrates. Marku’s grin falters. He gazes at Dushku, but his face reveals nothing.
We spent two hours building the negotiation tonight. Territorylines, revenue splits, mutual non-interference. The framework of a détente that would have saved both sides blood and money. Reasonable terms.
None of it matters now.
The meal continues, and I remain seated at the head of my table and speak when required and agree to nothing. I stall everything and count the minutes until I can end this and do what needs to be done.
After thirty more minutes of pointless conversation, I walk them out personally.
It’s protocol. The host escorts his guests to the gate in a show of respect. A final gesture, the civilized veneer that men in our world apply to the surface of things so we can pretend we’re not what we are.
The night is cold, turning my breath to smoke. My men line the path from the front door to the gate, positioned at intervals, visible and armed.
Dushku’s four men walk in formation around him, compact, alert. Marku trails behind them, adjusting his collar against the cold, already reaching for his phone.
I bet he’s composing a message to whatever woman he’ll purchase for the evening, already forgetting the room he left and the line he crossed.
At the gate, I shake Dushku’s hand. His grip is firm, and his eyes are steady. Whatever he’s thinking about what happened tonight, he keeps it behind the mask.
“A productive evening,” he says. “We’ll finalize the details.”
“We will,” I say. I don’t mean it. He probably knows I don’t mean it. That’s the game.
He steps through the gate. His men follow. Marku follows last.
They are no longer under my roof.
I draw the gun from beneath my jacket. The SIG Sauer is cold against my palm. The motion is smooth, the musclememory of a thousand repetitions. I raise it, sight aligned, and in the fraction of a second between aim and trigger, I wish I had more time.
I wish I could take this man to the warehouse on Loomis. I wish I could make him say her name — say it respectfully, say it the way it should be said, with every syllable — and then make him apologize.
But I don’t have time, and even if I did, the ending would be the same. Some debts can only be paid in full and in one installment.
I fire one shot directly to the back of Marku’s head, and he drops to the gravel without a sound.
The world detonates.
Guns appear. Dushku’s guards spin, and my men are already positioned, barrels up, sights locked. The air fills with the metallic chorus of slides racking and safeties disengaging.
Dushku turns. His face is unmasked for the first time tonight.
“What the fuck,” he says, the accent sharpening his consonants into blades, “was that?”
I lower the gun. Not away but down at my side, still in my hand.
“Your man should have learned to behave in someone else’s house.”
“You gave your word.” His voice is shaking with rage. The certain, incandescent fury of a man who has been publicly humiliated and is calculating the cost in real time. “You promised safety?—”
“Under my roof.” I gesture toward the gate with the barrel. “He’s not under my roof anymore.”
