Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Stefano
Leon O’Reilly is not as calm as he wants me to believe.
That is the first useful thing I learn when he follows me behind the smoked-glass partition and pours two drinks neither of us needs.
His hand is steady, but his mouth is not.
Every smile arrives a fraction too late, every laugh disappears too quickly, and when he says the raid was an inconvenience, his left eye tightens at the corner.
An inconvenience doesn’t put tension like that on a man’s face. But a problem does.
I take the glass he offers, but don’t drink from it. “You’ve had a difficult week.”
Leon smiles. “Difficult? No. Expensive, maybe.”
“Money returns.”
“Usually.”
“Then something else concerns you.”
His gaze flicks once toward the partition, toward the table where Maya sits with my men, watching from enough distance to let the room believe she is unattended.
He thinks the glance is subtle. It is not.
Men like Leon have spent too much of their lives assuming arrogance can be mistaken for composure if the suit is expensive enough.
“Federal raids concern everyone,” he says. “Even men with clean hands.”
I almost smile. Clean hands. The statement is laughable. The man sold women in my city, hid his children like assets to be transferred.
“Then it is fortunate neither of us is easily concerned by such things.”
He studies me over the rim of his glass, pointing toward Maya. “Expensive choice.”
“Worthwhile one.”
Leon’s mouth curves, but his eyes sharpen. He wants to look at her again. He knows better because I corrected him in front of the table, and pride still stings beneath his smile. I let that sting stay fresh.
“She seems… adjusted.”
I take one slow step closer to the glass partition, enough that I can see the reflection of the VIP area without turning my head fully. Maya is where I left her. Back straight. Her face is composed, but her eyes aren’t idle. She is working.
Good girl. The thought irritates me, because I like it too much.
“She learns quickly,” I say.
Leon laughs under his breath. “Women do when they understand the alternative.”
I look at him, eyes narrowing, and his laugh dies.
There is a version of this night where I put a bullet through Leon O’Reilly’s throat and let Maya decide whether to thank me or hate me while he bleeds onto imported carpet.
It would be satisfying. Fast. Too simple.
Dead men answer nothing, and I need Leon alive long enough to show me the shape of his remaining operation before I decide how much of him Maya will receive.
Alive, Maya wants him alive. Which is inconvenient. But she believes that bringing him to justice matters. I have not decided yet whether I agree.
Leon recovers the smile. “I meant no insult.”
“No,” I say. “You rarely do, do you?”
“Something like that. Still, profit makes a man listen, even when offense is made.”
“I said I would listen if it could profit me, yes.”
“Then listen.” He sets his glass down. “Something went missing during the raid.”
I answer with silence, patiently waiting for him to continue.
He continues. “My people were moving several assets out before the situation got — messy.”
“What sort of assets?”
His jaw works once. “Family business, that’s all I’ll say.”
The reflection in the glass shifts at the table behind me, and a man moves closer to Maya.
Alistair Voss. I recognize him immediately.
Soft hands. Empty courage. A wife in Palm Beach who collects charity committees, a son with gambling debts, and two offshore accounts tied to women who didn't choose the rooms they were taken to.
Alistair has survived this long because he is never important enough to be the first priority to kill.
That may change tonight if he doesn’t get away from what is mine. I watch in the reflection as his hand closes around Maya’s wrist. And every nerve in my body goes still. Oblivious to the situation, Leon keeps talking. But for the next three seconds, I hear none of it.
Maya looks down at the man’s hand. Then back at his face. She doesn’t panic. She doesn’t pull away. She offers him a smile.
I struggle to force my attention back to my own task.
That was the point of leaving her there.
Omar is nearby, at the lower bar. Two of my men have lines of sight from the stairs.
I can see the table reflected in the glass.
Maya is not alone; however, she believes she is alone.
I’ve left her that way on purpose, I want to see what she chooses when she has a choice.
Where she looks. How she handles the pressure. Whether she can draw information from men who think she has been reduced to something decorative. Whether her anger sharpens her abilities or exposes her.
I watch in the reflection as she says something to Alistair that I cannot hear. I see the shape of her mouth change, and the slight tilt of her head.
Leon says, “Are you listening?”
“No.” I look back at him. “You were talking around the point. Continue when you find it.”
His expression falters, and color rises faintly along his neck. Behind me, Alistair leans closer to Maya. His fingers remain around her wrist. And I take one sip from my drink to distract myself, the sharp bittersweet taste of the alcohol helping me concentrate.
“Someone interrupted the transfer and removed those assets from my control,” Leon says. “I want to know who.”
“There were many interruptions that night.”
“This one was specific. Intentional.”
“Then perhaps your men should have been trained better.”
His eyes harden at the critique. “My men were busy with the FBI.”
“Everyone was busy with the FBI. Some still managed to leave with what they wanted.” Leon’s gaze flicks toward Maya again, faster this time. He respects the warning enough not to linger. Smart.
“I lost more than inventory,” he says.
I set the glass aside. “What exactly did you lose, Leon?”
His face reveals nothing as he responds to the push, “As I said, assets.”
“And you don’t know who has them?”
His mouth thins.
The twins are still leverage. Not because he loves them. Because someone took what belonged to him, and he doesn’t know whose hand to sever for it. Pride will do what fatherhood didn't. Pride will bring him close.
But Maya will bring him closer. She will not allow herself to fail those children, which makes her far more committed than Leon. It also makes her more vulnerable.
In the reflection, I see Alistair’s hand slide from her wrist to her forearm. My grip tightens around nothing, fingers flexing against my own skin. Maya’s smile changes. A less observant man would miss it. Alistair certainly does.
He sees a woman tolerating him because she has been trained by rooms like this to survive first and retaliate later.
He doesn’t see the agent calculating witness lines and usable force.
He doesn’t see the sister of a dead woman measuring whether the information is worth the contamination of his hand.
Leon continues talking, and I push the sound of his voice out of focus and keep my eyes on the reflection. Maya leans back by half an inch. Alistair follows, pursuing her in the small space, and I stand.
Leon stops mid-sentence. “Where are you going?”
“To correct a mistake.”
His eyes narrow. “What mistake?”
I leave him behind the partition. Careful not to hurry.
Hurry tells a room that something has gone wrong.
I move through the VIP area as if returning to my table, my jacket falling just enough to hide the draw of the gun beneath it.
Omar sees me from the lower bar and shifts his attention immediately, but I give him no signal to interfere.
Alistair is mine.
His voice reaches me before I reach him. “Maybe I want to see what he paid for.”
My gun is in my hand before the last word finishes. I see Maya’s fingers beneath the table, closed around a fork, and I realize she is only a matter of seconds away from stabbing him herself. Which pleases me more than it should.
I step behind Alistair and place my left hand on his shoulder like we are old friends.
His body stiffens beneath the weight of my palm.
He understands the pressure there before he understands the weapon that presses against his side, the barrel settles low against his ribs, hidden beneath my jacket, and the angle of my body.
Maya sees it.
I lean down near Alistair’s ear. “Remove your hand from the lady’s arm.”
He does. Immediately.
“You were leaving,” I say.
His throat bobs. “Savarese—”
“You were leaving.”
The second time, I make it softer. Alistair hears me properly this time.
His face drains of color, and the bravado goes with it.
A man like him understands public shame poorly, but private death very well.
He slides out of the booth too quickly to look calm and not quickly enough to make me shoot him for insulting my patience.
No one stops him. No one asks why.
The women around the table watch in silence. The men suddenly find their glasses very interesting. The room knows well enough to understand selectively. I let Alistair reach the stairs before I put the gun away.
Then I look at the others. “Enjoy your evening.”
No one speaks.
Maya is still seated, chin lifted, eyes bright with the temper she is barely containing. There is a mark on her wrist where his fingers were. Faint. Nothing that will last, but it still offends me.
My hand comes to her waist. “We’re leaving.”
“They were talking.”
“They are finished.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I was.”
Her eyes narrow, and I know she wants to argue.
She wants to remind me that this was her work, her cover, her risk to manage.
For now, she stands because she is intelligent enough not to make this room the battlefield.
I guide her away from the booth, through the VIP section, down the steps, and into the main room.
I keep my hand at her waist the entire time. Not for the role now. Not entirely.
The room watches.