3. Liam
LIAM
I scrub my hands at the sink, water hot, my knuckles still tight with leftover adrenaline.
Barabas lies in his kennel in the treatment room, IV fluids dripping into his foreleg. The surgery ran just over three hours. He’s still touch-and-go, but he’s in far better shape than when he came in half-collapsed and growling at anyone who tried to help.
I dry my hands and glance over the monitors one last time. “I’ll be in my office,” I say to my team. “Page me if anything changes.”
The head nurse and the tech nod.
I leave them to it, and the door closes behind me. I sink into the chair, rolling my shoulders to ease the tension out of my back.
A message comes through.
Max: Running scared of left hooks now?
Me: Surgery.
Three dots. Gone. Back again.
Max: Very convenient.
Me: Barabas. Obstructed intestine. Wasn’t the meat after all.
A pause this time.
Max: How bad?
Me: Ugly start. Clean finish. He’s stable.
Max: That dog’s tougher than you.
Me: Says the man who ice-baths after two rounds.
Then the screen flickers with an incoming call.
Max: Tomorrow?
Me: Yep.
I answer the call.
“Hunt. It’s me.”
“Victor Rochemont.”
“Liam Hunt.” His greeting comes a little overeager. “How are you, my friend?”
“I’m twenty pounds heavier,” I say. “I’ll take that as a win.”
“Pure muscle,” he returns. “And I assume your bank account followed suit.”
The last time I saw him, I was still Longshot Liam. Six foot three, long-limbed, the one who kept winning from bad odds.
Victor was my first real education in money.
He taught me the truth no one says out loud: no odds are bad, only mispriced.
I’d been winning on instinct, and he showed me how to turn that into a system.
Though he never stuck around to see what it became.
He left for Europe, apparently for better pastries and prettier accents.
Somewhere along the way, calls turned into Christmas messages. Then nothing.
“So,” I say, leaning back. “Where’ve you been hiding?”
“Paris,” he says. “But I’m packing up. I’ll be in New York next week.”
“That’s new.” I keep it light. “This time you’re not disappearing back to Europe without seeing me. Even if you’re only here overnight.”
“Relax, Hunt.” His tone stays cheerful. “We’ll have time. I’m moving back.”
“Moving back?”
“Permanently.”
“Well,” I say. “Victor Rochemont only returns to New York for two reasons. Business or a woman.”
“Ah,” he says, pleased. “The betting man rarely misreads the play. Though the ‘or’ part’s flexible.”
I let out a short laugh. “So. Business and someone specific. In that case, a drink?”
“Yeah. Of course. Let me land first.”
“Obviously.”
“You know how it is,” he adds. “A company and a woman don’t fall into line on the same day.”
“I should’ve guessed. Who’s the lucky one? Anyone I know?”
“One who launched a thousand ships,” he says. “Or maybe I’m the ship.”
“Victor.”
“It’s the Mercer daughter. The older one. Helena.”
I still. “Mercer. Edward Mercer?”
“That’s the one.”
The name pulls up an old headline in my head.
Mercer Authority was once untouchable. It was a financial behemoth synonymous with conservative money.
Everyone trusted it. Then the risky deals started coming out and the whole thing collapsed.
Edward Mercer died of a heart attack five years ago.
I didn’t know much about the rest of the family.
“Good for you,” I say.
“How about you, Hunt?” Victor asks. “Put a ring on anyone’s finger yet?”
I exhale. “I haven’t changed. This betting man still plays it safe in that arena.”
He laughs. “Maybe you’re the smart one. Short term works better. Who even believes in forever these days?”
“You do.”
“I’m just hopeful,” he says. “Hey, you going to the Silver Paw Ball next week?”
“Yeah,” I reply. “I am.”
“I’ll see you there. And with a bit of luck, she’ll be with me.” He pauses, then adds, confident, “Actually, she will.”
“Then I’ll see you there.”
“Oh, Liam,” he says, as if remembering something small. “Any chance you could pick me up at the airport?”
“Of course.”
“I’m relearning how limos work in New York, so bear with me.” He clears his throat, then adds, “By the way, how’s the Game? Is that still a thing?”
The Velvet Game. Marcus Lockwood’s creation. An underground operation more private than invite-only, designed to fulfill fantasies most people wouldn’t admit to wanting. The Beaumont Royale event was one of the best. I wouldn’t be surprised if Victor wanted another round.
“What are you saying?” I ask.
“All right, all right,” he says, laughing. “Let me finish the flight and start courting properly, okay? Romance first. Game later?”
I smirk.
Some impulses outlive time.