Chapter 16
16
ATLAS
B y the time I stepped through the iron gates of Dominion Hall, the rain had dried from my skin, but the weight of it hadn’t left my shoulders.
The hall was still. Too still.
Lights low, marble floors gleaming. Every angle of this place had been designed to repel threat and reflect control. Fortress, museum, battlefield—it was all of it, and more. And yet right now, it felt like the waiting room for judgment.
I found Ryker and Marcus in the ops room. Screens flickered. Digital maps glowed like distant galaxies. Marcus was slouched in a chair, feet up, chewing on the end of a pen like it had wronged him. Ryker stood stiff near the window, arms crossed, jaw tight.
As soon as I entered, Ryker turned.
“They called,” he said without preamble. “Sheriff’s office.”
I didn’t flinch. “And?”
“They want to know how we want to handle it.”
That hung in the air for a moment. Not an accusation. A negotiation.
“We’ve had a long-standing relationship with the department,” Ryker went on. “They’ve got no love for Eugene, and they sure as hell aren’t looking to sink Dominion. But this thing’s on the wire, Atlas. If the story picks up steam, they’re going to be forced to act.”
I didn’t respond.
Marcus leaned forward, finally pulling the pen from his mouth. “I say we take a vacay to Barbados and let the story peter out on its own.”
Ryker shot him a look, then returned to me. “I talked them down for now. Told them the article was pure bullshit, that the guy’s got a personal vendetta and a history of mental manipulation.”
“Which is all true,” I said.
“But truth only holds until pressure shows up with a badge,” Ryker countered. “And right now? You’re the pressure point.”
“I’m not staying away from her,” I said flatly.
Neither of them said anything.
Marcus gave a half-smile, sharp and irreverent. “I give it two days before you show up shirtless at her rehearsal with a rose between your teeth.”
I didn’t smile.
Just looked at him.
The smile died.
“Copy,” he muttered, shrugging and leaning back again.
I turned back to Ryker. “We dig. Every corner. I want Eugene flayed open—fiscally, socially, historically. I want every alias, every mistress, every ghost.”
Ryker nodded once. “Already on it.”
I stood there another beat, then turned for the door.
“Where are you going?” Ryker asked.
“To pay our conductor a visit.”
Neither of them stopped me.
They knew better.
* * *
The Philharmonic’s offices were housed inside a building that tried hard to look humble. Pale brick. Ivy. Polished brass fixtures. Underneath it all was legacy and rot. You could smell it.
I didn’t wait for permission.
I walked through the front door, past a woman in pearls who asked me to sign in, and then past her again when she raised her voice. I knew where Eugene worked. I didn’t need directions.
The secretary outside his office—a sleek woman with a pinched expression and nervous eyes—rose to stop me.
“Sir, you can’t just?—”
I pushed past her.
The door swung open with a thud. Eugene was on the phone, hunched over his desk, his voice low and wheedling.
He looked up.
His face paled.
I reached across the desk, took the phone from his hand, and pressed the red button.
Disconnected.
“Rude,” he said, clearing his throat. “Mr. Dane. This is unexpected.”
“Is it?” I asked, shutting the door behind me. “Because I’d think when you publicly accuse someone of assault and mental manipulation, you might expect them to show up. Or is a peeping Tom too stupid to know that?”
He didn’t speak.
I advanced slowly, until I was leaning across the desk.
“You know what I hate more than anything?” I said softly. “Lies.”
Eugene blinked.
“I don’t lie,” he offered, voice thinner now. “I speak the truth as I know it.”
I slammed my fist down on the desk so hard the wood cracked.
He flinched.
“The truth,” I said, each word sharp enough to cut, “is that you’ve stalked, manipulated, and now tried to ruin the career of a woman who wanted nothing more than to be free of you. And I’m here to tell you what comes next.”
I leaned in.
“Every sin you’ve committed. Every lie you’ve told. Every hand you’ve greased and skirt you’ve lifted. It all comes out.”
He tried to speak.
I raised a finger.
“When I’m done, you won’t just be unemployed. You’ll be radioactive. Unfundable. Uninsurable. You’ll be begging to conduct birthday parties for drunk retirees in Boca Raton.”
I stepped back. Let the silence stretch.
But something bothered me.
He should’ve been terrified. Maybe he was. But there was still something smug beneath the surface. A flicker of it.
I tilted my head.
“Who’s behind you?”
He blinked again. Too slow.
“W-what do you mean?”
“This confidence. This little act. You’re not stupid. You know what a Dane can do to a man like you. So why aren’t you pissing yourself right now?”
His mouth opened. Closed. Then: “I’m just pursuing the truth. The world deserves to know?—”
“Wrong answer.”
I grabbed the edge of his desk and shoved it, hard. The whole thing groaned as it moved a foot backward. Papers scattered. His coffee mug toppled, spilling dark liquid across a sheaf of performance notes.
“I’m going to find out who let you out on a leash,” I said, my voice cold now. “And when I do? You’ll both be out of moves.”
His mouth trembled.
I stepped toward the door.
“Have a nice day, Eugene.”
And then I was gone.
But the moment I stepped outside, I knew I wasn’t alone.
A squad car idled at the curb. Two officers stood near it—badges visible, posture respectful.
One stepped forward.
“Mr. Dane,” he said. “We need a word.”
I nodded. “Of course.”
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t run.
Just got in the back of the squad car and went along for the ride.
Because whatever this was?
It wasn’t over.
Not by a long shot.