Dominic’s hand was shaking so badly he could barely lift it. But he did. Slowly. Fingers splayed. Palm down. Right in the center of the mahogany table on the white tablecloth.
I didn’t hesitate.
I drove the steak knife through his hand and into the wood beneath it.
The sound was wet and final—a thickthunkthat seemed to echo in the quiet room. The blade went clean through. I felt the resistance of skin, then muscle, then the scrape of bone, then the solid bite of wood.
Dominic screamed.
High and sharp. The kind of sound that came from a place deeper than pain.
His body jerked forward, but my free hand was already on his shoulder, pressing him down, holding him in place. He tried to pull his hand free, but the knife had pinned him like an insect in a collection.
Blood spread across the white tablecloth. Dark red. Almost black in the chandelier light.
I leaned down, my mouth close to his ear.
“Next time,” I said quietly, “I don’t give a fuck if you have to run a damn marathon. You get my shit here on time.”
Dominic nodded frantically, tears streaming down his face, his free hand clutching at the table.
I straightened and looked at Priest.
Priest stood without a word, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and walked over. He wrapped it around Dominic’s wrist—tight enough to slow the bleeding but not stop it—and then yanked the knife out in one smooth motion.
Dominic screamed again.
The sound died quickly, swallowed by the thick carpet and heavy drapes.
“Get him out of here,” I said.
Priest hauled Dominic to his feet. The man stumbled and nearly fell, but Priest kept him upright and walked him toward the door. Blood dripped on the floor behind them. Dark spots on pale wood.
The door opened and closed.
I stood alone in the beautiful room.
The smell of copper had joined the smell of money. Blood and bourbon. Violence and wealth. The two things that built empires and kept them standing.
I picked up my napkin and wiped the blood off my fingers. The linen came away red. I set it back on the table.
Then, I sat down, picked up my water glass, and took another slow sip.
The door to the main dining room remained closed. No one came to check on the noise. No one ever did. The Sazerac Room had a reputation, and that reputation included knowing when to look the other way.
I set the glass down.
Pulled out my phone.
Sent a text to Raymond Fontenot:Schedule the interview. Friday. 2 PM.
The response came back within seconds:Confirmed.
I slipped the phone back into my pocket.
Outside, the city moved—cars honking, streetcars rattling down St. Charles, people laughing, and living and dying without ever knowing my name. The world kept turning, indifferent to what happened in rooms like this.
I looked at the blood on the tablecloth.
