Chapter 9 Uninvited #2
“Fine,” I said. “You've made your point. I'll eat. I'll sleep. I'll engage in basic human maintenance so you can stop lecturing me about self-care.”
“Good. Come on. Food first. Existential crisis second.”
Dom led me to a corner table, ordered for both of us in what sounded like competent Turkish that made the server's face light up.
“You speak Turkish,” I said when the server left.
“Enough to order food and not embarrass myself. Don't ask me to discuss philosophy.” He poured water from the carafe, slid a glass toward me. “Drink. You're dehydrated.”
“You're very bossy when you're feeding people.”
“I'm very bossy in general. You just haven't noticed because you're usually too busy trying to control everything yourself.” He drank his own water, watching me over the rim.
“What? Do I have something on my face?”
“When did things actually go wrong? When did you stop being someone who believed in systems and start being someone who operates outside them?”
I took a long drink, buying time. “Why does it matter?”
“Because if I'm going to work with you, I need to understand what drives you. What you're actually fighting for beyond revenge and spite. Whether you can sustain this long enough to be useful.”
“Maybe revenge and spite are enough.”
“Maybe. But I don't think so.” He leaned back as the server brought flatbread and hummus.
“It wasn't one moment,” I said finally. “It was gradual. Small betrayals. Little compromises. Watching good people get chewed up by a system designed to protect itself rather than deliver justice.” I paused.
“At some point I realised I had a choice. Keep participating in something fundamentally broken, or walk away and try to fix things from outside.”
“And you chose outside.”
“I was forced out. There's a difference.”
“Was it force or was it relief?” Dom's eyes stayed level. “Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you wanted an excuse to stop playing by rules you'd stopped believing in.”
“That's a very judgemental assessment.”
“That's an observation. Not judgement.” He tore his own bread. “I did the same thing. Left a system I'd spent years serving because I realised it wasn't serving anything except its own perpetuation.”
“Military?”
“Yeah. Had all the structure, all the rules, all the certainty about right and wrong.” His jaw tightened fractionally. “Then I saw what those rules actually produced in practice and decided I'd rather be accountable to myself than to institutions that valued obedience over morality.”
“So how do you do it?” I asked. “How do you work for Adrian without feeling like you're just trading one system for another?”
“Because Adrian's honest about what he is.
Doesn't pretend to be noble or righteous.
He's a fixer who operates in grey spaces, and everyone who works for him knows exactly what they're signing up for.” Dom's voice stayed level.
“There's freedom in that clarity. No illusions. No pretense. Just agreements between adults who understand the stakes.”
“And when those agreements conflict with your conscience?”
“Then I renegotiate or I walk. Adrian respects that.” He studied me. “You could have that too if you stopped trying to do everything alone. If you let people help without assuming they'll eventually use it against you.”
“People usually do.”
“Some people. Not all people.” He pushed the hummus toward me. “Eat more. You're still half-starved.”
I ate. The food was excellent—rich, flavourful, satisfying in ways that made me realise how long I'd been running on inadequate fuel. Dom watched me with expression that was part satisfaction, part concern.
“Better?” he asked when I'd slowed down.
“Better.” I leaned back, let my body actually process food for the first time in days. “Happy now?”
“Getting there.” But his mouth curved. “Tell me about risk tolerance.”
“What about it?”
He drank more water. “You strike me as someone who takes risks that would make normal people reconsider their life choices.”
“Risk is relative. What looks reckless to outsiders often makes perfect sense when you understand the tactical picture.”
“That's a very elaborate way of saying you're reckless.”
“That's me saying I calculate risks and accept consequences.” I met his eyes. “What about you? You followed me tonight without knowing where I was going or what I was doing. That's not exactly cautious behaviour.”
“That's me making sure someone I might work with doesn't get himself killed doing something stupid.” His voice carried challenge. “There's a difference between calculated risk and suicide by investigator.”
“You think I'm suicidal?”
“I think you're willing to die if it means bringing Harrow down. Which makes you either the best ally possible or the worst.” His gaze stayed level.
“I'm here to figure out which.” He leaned forward slightly.
“Here's the thing, Cal. I'm not going to sit on my hands while Harrow tightens the noose.
I'm not going to play it safe while he buys silence and closes access points.
But I'm also not going to charge in recklessly just because action feels better than patience.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Be smart. Be strategic. Take risks worth taking and avoid risks that serve nothing except ego.” His gaze held mine. “And if we do this—if I agree to work with you—I'm going to make sure you do the same. Because I don't sign up for partnerships that end with preventable deaths.”
“You don't understand what happens when men like Harrow decide you're inconvenient.”
“Don't I? I've worked for Adrian long enough to see how powerful men operate. How they isolate threats. How they destroy people systematically.” His voice went harder. “I understand exactly what we're up against. Which is why we need to be smarter than them instead of just angrier.”
“Smarter gets you dead when you're fighting people who rewrite rules.”
“Angrier gets you dead faster.” He didn't blink. “If we do this, I need to know you'll fight in ways that let you survive long enough to actually win.”
The server brought lamb that smelled like heaven. We ate in silence for a few minutes, the weight of his assessment settling between us.
“What if I can't?” I asked finally. “What if sustainable isn't in my nature?”
“Then this conversation ends here, and you keep hunting Harrow alone until he buries you.” Dom's voice stayed level. “I'm not interested in watching someone destroy themselves. Been there. Done that. Not doing it again.”
“And what's the alternative? Play it safe while Harrow keeps destroying people?”
“The alternative is finding someone who can cover your weaknesses while you cover theirs. Someone who can pull you back when you're about to do something irreversibly stupid.” His jaw set. “That's what I'm looking for. Not a martyr. A partner.”
“I don't need—”
“Everyone needs something. Question is whether you're smart enough to admit it before it kills you.” He pushed his plate aside.
“I'm not here because I pity you or because I think you need saving.
I'm here because you're brilliant and reckless and might actually have a chance at bringing Harrow down. If you don't destroy yourself first.”
I stared at him. “That's the sales pitch? 'Work with me or die alone'?”
“That's reality.” But his mouth curved slightly. “Come on. There's somewhere I want to show you before I make my decision.”
Dom drove us along the Thames to Tower Bridge, parked illegally, and led me toward the railing where the river stretched black and glittering beneath city lights.
The air smelled like water and diesel and the particular scent of London at night—old stone and new money and history refusing to stay buried.
“Why are we here?” I asked.
“Because I needed to think. And this is where I do that.” He leaned against the railing, looking out over water that had seen centuries of London's ugliest moments.
“When things feel overwhelming, I come here.
Reminds me that the city's survived worse. That problems that feel permanent are actually just temporary.”
“That's surprisingly philosophical for someone who solves problems with violence.”
“Violence is a tool. Philosophy is what decides when to use it.” He glanced at me. “What are you actually afraid of, Cal?”
The question landed like a punch. “What?”
“You heard me. What scares you more than Harrow? More than dying?”
I should have deflected. Should have made a joke or changed the subject. But standing there in the dark with Dom beside me, exhausted enough that my defences had worn thin, the truth slipped out before I could stop it.
“Mattering to someone. Becoming someone's weakness. Giving people leverage that'll get them killed when Harrow decides to use it.”
Dom was quiet for a long moment. “That's why you work alone. Why you're running yourself into the ground. You're trying to make yourself indestructible by making yourself untouchable.”
“I'm trying not to become a liability.”
“You're trying not to be human.” His voice stayed gentle but carried weight. “But you can't fight like this forever, Cal. Eventually you'll need someone.”
“Alone is safer.”
“Alone is slower death.” He turned to face me properly. “I've been watching you tonight. Trying to figure out if working with you makes sense. Trying to decide if you're worth the risk.”
My chest tightened. “And?”
“And I think you're brilliant and damaged and absolutely convinced you're going to die doing this.” His gaze held mine. “I think you're one of the best investigators I've seen operate. I think you have a chance—a real chance—at bringing Harrow down.”
“But?”
“But I also think you'll destroy yourself getting there if someone doesn't stop you.” He paused.
“So here's what I'm offering. Partnership.
Real partnership. Not me watching from the sidelines while you burn yourself out.
Not you managing information and keeping me at arm's length.
Equal partners who cover each other's weaknesses.”
“I don't need—”
“Yes, you do. And so do I.” His voice firmed.
“And what if working with me gets you killed?”
“Then we bleed together.” He said it like it was simple. Like it was obvious. “I'm not asking for compliance, Cal. I'm not asking you to play it safe or stop being who you are. I don't want you compliant. I want you here. Alive. Fighting beside me because together we're stronger than apart.”
“And if I'm here, you become a target.”
“Then we bleed together,” he repeated. “That's what partnership means. Not one person protecting the other by pushing them away. Both people choosing to face threats together.”
“I don't know how to do that,” I said quietly. “Don't know how to let someone matter without immediately planning for how they'll die because of me.”
“Then we figure it out. Together.” Dom's hand settled on my shoulder.
Warm. Solid. Grounding. “But you don't get to make unilateral decisions about whether this partnership happens.
I'm offering. You're accepting or you're not.
But you don't get to say no because you're trying to protect me from my own choices.”
I stared at him. At the certainty in his face. At the offer hanging between us like something that could either save me or destroy us both.
“You're going to regret this,” I said.
“Maybe.” But he was smiling. “But I'd rather regret trying than regret watching you destroy yourself alone. So what's it going to be, Cal? Partners or not?”
I stared at him. At the offer. At the particular insanity of someone choosing to walk into my disaster deliberately.
“Partners,” I said finally. “But when this goes wrong—when Harrow uses me against you or vice versa—you don't get to say I didn't warn you.”
“Deal.” His smile widened. “Now come on. I'm taking you home. Your actual home. Where you're going to sleep in an actual bed for at least six hours.”
“I don't need—”
“Yes, you do. And now that we're partners, you're going to let me help.” He started walking back toward the car. “Unless you want to renegotiate already. Which seems inefficient.”
“You're insufferable.”
“You're exhausting.” But he said it like a compliment. “Get in the car, Cal. Let your partner take care of you for once.”
I should have argued. Should have insisted I was fine, that I didn't need taking care of, that accepting help was weakness I couldn't afford.
Instead I followed him back to my car and let him drive me home through London's dark streets while exhaustion finally dragged me under. Let myself trust, just this once, that maybe bleeding together was better than bleeding alone.
Even if the thought terrified me more than anything Harrow could do.
Especially then.