Epilogue
Mr. Bristow
The city’s financial district glitters outside, flaunting its floor-to-ceiling windows, all glass and steel, pretending it doesn’t rot from the inside out.
Hide Rooftop Bar operates on the same principle with its velvet banquettes, candlelight flickering off cut crystal, and a skyline view meant to impress people who need illusions to feel powerful.
I don’t.
I fucking hate this godforsaken city. Hadn’t planned to return this soon, but this latest assignment changed everything. The job has put me closer to the man I’ve been hunting, the man I intend to put into the ground.
For Natalie.
The waiter circles past again, his smile fixed, then he heads down the stairs to the main level. The bar is nearly empty, not uncommon for a Tuesday. It’s also the reason I chose to meet Benedict Callahan tonight.
My gaze falls back to the stairs as I take another sip of the Hide’s Old Fashioned. It’s overpriced, poorly balanced, and heavy on rye that can't mask cheap bitters.
But I don’t drink it for the taste. I drink to watch who’s watching me.
From the corner table on the upper level, I have the best viewpoint in the room. The glass railing even reflects enough that I don’t have to look directly at the stairs to know who’s coming. But right now, I do, especially as a kid with auburn hair comes into view.
Benedict Callahan.
My client.
He climbs the stairs like he’s out for a casual stroll, hands tucked in the pockets of his black skinny jeans, wearing an untucked button-down and white sneakers.
He looks like most college kids. Except for the Slim d'Hermès Squelette on his wrist, which is thirty-four thousand dollars of “fuck you” money ninety-eight percent of the world doesn’t have.
I take another sip of my Old Fashioned, the ice mostly melted, as he reaches the landing and spots me. He smirks, strolling over with a confidence that’s nothing like the awkward kid hiding behind his sister the media portrays.
And he came alone.
I set my glass down, my eyes never leaving his. There’s something dark there, something even darker in that smirk.
“Mr. Bristow.”
I nod. “Mr. Callahan. Take a seat.”
Benedict sits, placing a manila envelope from under his arm onto his lap.
I don't usually meet clients face-to-face since digital escrow handles the money. But the second part of the payment for this job is intel on the man I’m going to kill. And that information must be exchanged without ever touching a network.
Especially when that man is a senator.
“Should probably look at the menu, make this seem normal. Except I’m on the wrong side of twenty-one for that game.” Benedict nods at my drink. “Though that bourbon's an interesting choice. Would've pegged you for something . . . cleaner. Less sweet.”
“You're confusing preference with camouflage.” I glance toward the stairs, then back to him. “Your turn. What's in the envelope?”
He chuckles low, and it’s more breath than sound, like a kid who just found out where the matches are kept. “Don't worry, I really did come alone. It's more fun that way.”
“Save the performance. We both know what we are. The envelope, Mr. Callahan.”
His finger taps his chin as he tilts his head slightly. “I do have one question, Mr. Bristow. Why did you kill Cordelia Walsh? Connor and his friends had the situation taken care of.”
Except they didn’t. If I hadn’t stepped in, my brother would’ve been gutted. I got into this line of work to take care of him, and I wasn’t going to sit back and do nothing when his happiness was about to be fucking destroyed.
I let the silence stretch for three heartbeats. “I needed to ensure that I received my payment. Now, I won’t ask again.” My gaze drops to the envelope in his lap, then back up.
“Skipping the foreplay and going right to the main event. Fine.” Benedict hands me the manila envelope.
“Inside you'll find a micro-SD card with the senator's actual financial records—not the sanitized ones his accountants file. Plus, some interesting photos from his . . . extracurricular activities. Names, dates, locations.”
I open the envelope and pull out the contents, not bothering to respond. The micro-SD card goes into my jacket pocket before I quickly flip through the papers and photos to make sure this kid delivered what was promised and isn’t fucking with me.
One catches my eye.
Not of the senator, but some kid with a compass tattoo on the left side of his neck, looking at the camera like he's in on a joke nobody else gets. It’s a particular brand of trouble I recognize from a mile away—the kind that gets off on doing exactly what they shouldn't be.
A goddamn brat.
My finger taps the photo once. “Who's the kid?”
Benedict props one ankle on his opposite knee, leaning back like he's about to enjoy this next part. “Now that's the interesting bit. Senator's particular about his toys and the events he attends.”
“Which events?”
“High-end sex parties run by the Obsidian Rabbit. Very exclusive. The kind where powerful men get to play with their favorite toys without consequences. Black cards, vetted locations, absolute discretion. Well...” He grins, but it’s all teeth and dangerous. “Almost complete.”
I look back down at the photo, at the mischievous twinkle in this kid’s eyes. “And what does this kid have to do with it?”
“He's been the senator's favorite party favor for two years. Bet he knows all sorts of intimate details. You know, the kind men confess when they think they're safe. That's your door, Mr. Bristow. Much more elegant than kicking it down, wouldn't you say?”
Two years. Kid's lucky to still be breathing.
I clench my teeth, my thoughts going back to Natalie’s autopsy report, to the injuries listed even after being submerged in a lake for three years. She was killed working one of those types of parties.
This kid’s on borrowed time, and if he’s not careful, another family will lose a loved one. Unless I put the fucking senator in the ground first. “Where do I find him?”
“Already gave you everything you need.” Benedict nods at the papers in my hand. “There’s a job listing in there. South Shore University needs a physical therapist for their athletic program. Fascinating coincidence—our boy plays hockey there. Funny how opportunities present themselves.”
Fucking dammit.
Hockey.
That’s my brother’s world. While I’ve interacted with it as a physical therapist, I’ve always kept the darker parts of my life away from it. And him. But this kid, this opportunity… I owe it to Natalie.
Except . . . my heart beats faster, fingers gripping the papers in my hand tighter as I meet Ben’s gaze, my eyes narrowed. “How the fuck did you know I was a physical therapist?”
“I do my homework, Mr. Bristow.” He leans forward and plucks my glass off the table, bringing it to his lips and maintaining eye contact the entire time.
“Or should I say, Mr. Harper?” He slides the glass back toward me, two fingers on the rim, still grinning.
“Isn't this fun? All the masks are coming off at once. It’s like unwrapping presents on Christmas morning.”
My hand clamps around his wrist before he can pull it back from the glass, grip tight enough to grind the bones. “You just signed your death certificate.”
“Calm down, Tommy. Can I call you that?” He tries to pull his hand away, but I tighten my hold, and he rolls his eyes. “I had to protect myself. An intelligent man like yourself must understand that, especially after you found out who I was.”
I release his hand but continue leaning forward.
My friend came across Benedict’s encrypted post, looking to contract someone for a hit, and when my friend figured out who it was—and who Benedict knew—I reached out and took the job.
With the layers of encryption and coding, I should’ve guessed he could figure out my identity, especially when I figured out his.
Clever bastard.
“We're done here.” I put the photos and paper back into the envelope, then rise from my seat.
“Mr. Callahan, I suggest you move on. And if you cross me or come after those closest to me, I’ll erase you.
Not just kill you. Erase. No clever fail-safes, no digital footprints. You'll simply stop existing.”
He doesn't flinch, just examines his wrist where my grip left marks, turning it in the light like it's art. “Noted, Mr. Harper. Good luck with the new job.”
I start to leave, then stop and turn toward Benedict. “The hockey player, what's his name?”
He leans back in his chair and gives me that sharp smile. “Raiyne Augustus Rua.”