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Then I look at Jacque’s eyes. There is a haunting look in them. Something lived. Something experienced. The worry lands before I can stop it. A cold little drop behind the heat Dmitri put in me an hour ago.

“I hear you,” I say.

“No,” Jacque says. “You hear the warning. You do not hear the screams off all the men he has... disappeared.”

I hold his gaze. Then I do what I always do when a true thing is inconvenient… I brush it off.

“Goodnight, Jacque.”

He lets me pass. “Goodnight, Elias. Try not to get yourself killed.”

I chuckle. Jacque is a good guy and has a dark sense of humor. Too bad his ambitions don’t match mine.

The crisp night air is a slap I want.

I cross the street to the diner because I cannot go home with Zane’s message unanswered and Dmitri’s offer hanging in the air like smoke.

The same booth as before.

Same ugly neon that I wouldn’t change for anything in the world.

A waitress who does not care if I am a saint or a problem.

“Coffee. Pancakes,” he says, trudging off in quick time.

I take out my phone. The members list sits in a folder hidden inside a folder.

Names. Habits. Bank details. Special preferences.

I take a breath and then begin to type...

ELIAS: I have the intel. Not sending it over the phone. Tomorrow. In person. I want to talk. I might need to build an exit strategy. The kind of exit that means I can never be traced. Insurance. Don’t worry, I will pay the kind of money this plan requires. But it’s face to face or nothing.

The reply is fast.

ZANE: Fine. You name the place. You’re right to be smart about an exit strategy. I’ve seen too many boys fall into the trap of getting too deep and drowning when the tidal wave hits. And don’t worry, I’ll be ready with a price for you.

I lock the screen. The coffee arrives. Then the pancakes, too yellow, too sweet, but I’m all there for it.

I take a bite. Syrup. Butter. A normal boy having a normal meal after a normal shift.

Fuck, I almost believe it.

Then the booth dips. Dmitri sits down beside me like the diner has been holding the seat for him. A heavy cup of black coffee lands in front of him. No waitress that I saw. He just appears, and the table accepts it.

My fork stops. “You followed me,” I say.

“You sat in a window,” he answers. “Again. A creature of habit. I can relate.”

There is no locker-room steel in his voice. No command. Just a dry amusement that makes him look, for a second, like a man instead of a devil.

But is this worse? Charm is a tool. I know that. I have used it more times than I can count. Hearing it on him makes my stomach go tight.

“If this is about the staff room⁠—”

“It is about work,” Dmitri says. He drinks, watches me over the rim.

The diner chatter goes on around us. A trucker. A nurse. A boy who has been crying into his cell phone. Nobody knows the man in the dark coat put me on a locker room floor and made me cum like a wild animal.