Chapter Seven Jagger #2
"Excellent." He waves a hand in dismissal. "Report back when it's done."
I stand, button my jacket, and leave without another word.
The drive to the Castellano takes twenty minutes.
I use the time to construct my approach.
Aurelio Bonaccorso is an old dog. Older than most mafia Don’s make it to.
He's survived attempts on his life, brokered deals that younger men couldn't manage, and built a reputation for being both ruthless and reasonable.
He'll understand a direct approach. No games. No threats that can't be backed up. Just information and consequences.
The hotel is boutique, expensive, the kind of place that values discretion over flash. I approach the front desk and give a name that opens doors in certain circles. Three minutes later, I'm in the elevator heading to the penthouse level.
Aurelio's security is good. Two men at the suite door, both armed, both paying attention. They check my credentials, pat me down, and only then knock to announce my arrival.
The man who answers isn't what I expected.
He's handsome in a sharp, Mediterranean way.
White hair pushed back from his forehead, jaw that could cut glass, eyes so dark they're almost black.
He's dressed casually—linen shirt, dark trousers—but there's nothing casual about the way he holds himself.
This is a man who knows exactly how dangerous he is.
"Mr. Harrison." His accent is faint, mostly American with hints of something older underneath. He knows who I am. I don’t know if I should be flattered or concerned. "I wasn't expecting company."
"I won't take much of your time."
He studies me for a moment, then steps aside. "Come in."
The suite is tasteful. Neutral colors, quality furniture, a view of the city that probably costs more per night than most people make in a month. Aurelio moves to the bar, with slow steps, and pours two glasses of wine without asking if I want one.
"Please." He gestures to the sitting area. "I have a feeling this is going to be an interesting conversation."
I take the offered seat but not the wine. He shrugs and drinks from both glasses, proving they're not poisoned, then sets one in front of me anyway.
"You're here about Kreiss," he says.
No point in dancing. "Yes."
"I assumed someone would come eventually. Though I expected a bullet, not a conversation." His smile is all teeth. "Should I be flattered?"
"You should be careful. Werner Kreiss is connected to people who don't appreciate scrutiny."
"The Silent." He says it casually, like he's discussing the weather. "Yes, I'm aware."
"Then you're aware that continuing your investigation would be inadvisable."
"Inadvisable." He rolls the word around like he's tasting it. "That's an interesting choice. Not impossible. Not forbidden. Just... inadvisable."
"I'm not here to threaten you, Mr. Bonaccorso. I'm here to provide information. What you do with that information is your business."
"And what information is that?"
I lean forward slightly. "Kreiss handles money for the Custodians.
Not one house. All of them. The transactions he facilitates have kept certain organizations operational for decades.
If you pull at those threads, you won't just uncover financial crimes.
You'll expose networks that have spent centuries learning how to protect themselves. "
"And they'll come after me."
"They'll come after everyone you've ever loved. Your family. Dahlia. Your organization. The Castillo dispute will seem like a minor inconvenience by comparison."
Aurelio is quiet for a moment. His dark eyes assess me with an intelligence I can't help but respect.
"You're very good at this," he says finally. "The warning wrapped in concern. The threat that sounds like advice. I can see why they sent you."
"I'm not the enemy, Mr. Bonaccorso. I'm just the messenger."
"And if I don't take the message?"
"Then I'll deliver a different kind of message. One you won't enjoy receiving."
He laughs. Genuine, surprised. "There it is. The teeth behind the smile." He picks up his wine and takes a long sip. "I appreciate the honesty, Mr. Harrison. It's rare in our respective lines of work."
"Then we understand each other."
"We do." He sets down the glass and stands, moving to the window. The city stretches out below us, glittering and indifferent. "I'll pull back, for now. But I want you to know something."
I wait. Men like Aurelio don't make concessions without attaching strings.
"The Castillo war isn't about territory.
It's about something deeper. We have people working on figuring it out.
" He turns to face me, and underneath the charm, I see something cold and patient.
The kind of cold that waits years for the right moment.
"When I do, the balance of power on this coast will shift.
And when that happens, I'll remember who delivered messages and who delivered threats. "
"I'll keep that in mind."
"Please do." He crosses back to me, extending a hand. "It's been a pleasure, Mr. Harrison. I hope our next meeting is under better circumstances."
I shake his hand. His grip is firm, controlled.
"One more thing," he says, not releasing my hand. "Kreiss is dirty. Not just Silent dirty. He's running his own game on the side. Skimming. Redirecting. Building something that doesn't belong to the people who think they own him."
I keep my expression neutral. "Is that so."
"Just information. Take it or leave it." He releases my hand and steps back. "I have a feeling we'll be seeing each other again, Mr. Harrison. When we do, I hope you'll remember that I could have made this difficult, and I chose not to."
"I'll remember."
"Good." His smile returns, sharp and knowing. "Now get out of my hotel room. I have calls to make."
I turn to leave, and his voice follows me to the door.
"Back off Kreiss," I say without looking back. "You're encroaching on territory you aren't ready for."
"Yet," he says. "Territory I'm not ready for yet."
I don't respond. Just walk out, past the security, into the elevator, and down to the street where my car is waiting.
The drive back takes longer. Traffic, or maybe I'm just not in a hurry. I think about Aurelio Bonaccorso and his old eyes. Think about the way he said "yet".
He's going to be a problem eventually. Men like that don't back down. They just wait for better timing.
When I get back to the apartment, it's dark. My stomach is growling and I’m surprised to find that I’ve been missing Jonah while I’ve been away.
Three hours. I was gone for three hours and I missed him like a sad sack. Absolutely pathetic.
I check the security feeds first. Habit. The cameras show empty rooms, undisturbed spaces, everything exactly as I left it.
Except for Jonah.
He's asleep on the couch, documents spread across his chest, one hand dangling toward the floor.
His legal pad has slipped off the cushions, and sticky notes litter the carpet around him like fallen leaves.
He's still wearing the clothes from this morning, though his feet are bare and there's a coffee mug on the table that's long gone cold.
He waited up for me. Or tried to at least.
I’m touched. People don't wait up for me. People don't worry about me. I'm the one who handles things, manages situations, solves problems. I'm the one who comes and goes without explanation because explanations are vulnerabilities and vulnerabilities get you killed.
But Jonah fell asleep on my couch with my files in his hands, and my chest aches at the sight.
I stand in the doorway and watch him breathe. In sleep, his face loses that sharp, defensive edge. He looks younger. The bruise on his neck has darkened to purple, visible above his collar. There's another mark on his collarbone, barely visible where his shirt has shifted. My marks.
My claim.
I should wake him. Send him to his bed. Maintain the boundaries that keep getting thinner every day.
Instead, I cross to the closet and pull out a blanket. It's soft, expensive, the kind of thing I bought because it felt better to have quality bedding, not because I ever expected to use it on someone else.
I drape it over him carefully, tucking the edges around his shoulders. He stirs, mumbles something that sounds like my name, and burrows deeper into the couch. His hand finds the edge of the blanket and pulls it closer.
I should leave. Go to bed. Get the four hours of sleep my body requires to function.
Instead, I sit in the chair across from him and pull up the files on my tablet. The Kreiss timeline. The date discrepancies Jonah found. The web of shell companies that connects Geneva to facilities I haven't identified yet.
But I keep looking up. Keep watching him sleep.
Aurelio Bonaccorso asked if he should be flattered that they sent a conversation instead of a bullet.
My mind drifts to Jonah in that detention center. The file that crossed my desk three years ago, flagging him for permanent erasure. The cold calculation I made when I decided to break him instead of kill him, because broken assets can still be useful and corpses are just waste.
I wonder what he would say if he knew how close he came to the same choice.
How close he still is, every day, to disappearing into the same shit hole that's swallowed so many others.
One wrong move. One suspicious Custodian.
One slip in my careful performance, and he becomes another body in the foundation.
I wonder what it says about me that I can't let that happen.
The Foundry trained me to see people as assets.
Resources. Tools to be used and discarded when their utility ends.
For thirty years, that's exactly what I did.
I never questioned it, never hesitated. Never lost a moment of sleep over the faces that blurred together into a single mass of processed humanity.
Now there's a man sleeping on my couch who calls me an asshole and makes me laugh and wants to be near me.
A man I destroyed and somehow couldn't destroy completely.
A man who should hate me, who has every right to hate me, and instead climbs into my bed and wants me to take control of his body, mind and soul.
The tablet dims from inactivity. I don't bother to wake it.
I just sit in the dark, watching over something I'm not supposed to want, and try to figure out what the hell I'm becoming.
Whatever it is, there's no going back.
I'm not sure I want to.