Chapter 7 #3
“Find out who this mystery guarantor is,” Orien says. His attention returns to the office building. “The last thing we need is another Tony situation, where Omegas are being trafficked off our streets.”
Our streets. The phrase echoes in my head as I take in the scene below. Nothing so grand as a territory. Just their neighborhood to protect.
Ash had tried to tell me what kind of work the Blue Note does when the boys and girls president came in looking for help, but I hadn’t understood. Now I do.
Or, at least, I’m starting to.
This is what Orien does. What the Blue Note stands for.
And I’ve been sent to destroy it.
My hand moves to the microphone case, where the small recording device sits, capturing every word, every moment of what I’m witnessing. Evidence that can be used as leverage to take down these people.
As Orien kneels beside the smallest girl, helping her into the warm SUV, I hit stop.
Hours later, my hands shake with cold as I fit the key into my apartment lock. It takes three tries before it slides home, the tumbler clicking as I turn it.
The door swings open on silent hinges, and I step into the darkness, not bothering with the lights as I cross to the small desk in the corner.
The apartment is as I left it, the bed made, laptop closed on the desk, and kitchen counter wiped clean. Nothing out of place. Nothing personal. The perfect blank slate for Lee Esposito, freelance graphic designer, new to Ashford Heights.
No one would step into this place and think of Levon Vartanian.
I drop into the desk chair, my body heavy with exhaustion. My clothes reek of perfumes and spilled alcohol from the Blue Note, layered with the tang of sweat from the rooftop. I should shower. Should eat. Should do anything except what I’m about to do.
But the mission comes first. Always.
I plug the small recording device into my laptop, watching as the recording transfers to the secure drive. The screen fills with the grainy image of the alley, the van, the terrified girls.
My heart thumps hard when Orien steps into frame.
On the small screen, the controlled violence of his movements is evident.
My stomach tightens, not from disgust, but with recognition. I’ve seen this before. Done it myself, though never with Orien’s casual efficiency.
I minimize the video and open a blank document, my fingers hovering over the keys as I stare at the blinking cursor.
RE: Blue Note Operation - Initial Assessment
The words sit, black and accusing. I backspace, deleting Initial Assessment and replacing it with Surveillance Report.
Better.
I begin typing, describing the layout of the business district, the target building, and the van’s arrival. My words come easily at first, falling into the familiar rhythm of intelligence reporting. Objective, detached, focused on observable facts.
Then I reach the moment when Orien steps into the light.
My fingers slow, each keystroke more deliberate as I describe his approach and the ensuing confrontation. The words feel wrong as they appear, flat and inadequate to capture what I witnessed.
Not the violence. I’ve seen worse, done worse in service to the family. But the control behind it. The way Orien shifted from attacker to protector in the space of a heartbeat. The gentleness with which he handled the smallest girl.
The way he promised to find her sister.
My throat closes as I remember the girl’s tear-streaked face as she clung to Orien’s sleeve with absolute trust.
Trust he earned with blood.
I push back from the desk, abruptly unable to continue.
The apartment closes in around me, the walls crowding closer as I pace the narrow strip of floor between the bed and kitchen.
My reflection in the dark window shows a stranger, hair coming loose from the elastic band, eyes too bright, skin pale with exhaustion.
This isn’t me. This hesitation, this doubt. I’m Levon Vartanian. Alexei’s right hand. His most trusted operative.
I don’t question. I execute.
But the words won’t come. Not the ones I need to write. Not the report that will set in motion whatever my brother has planned for the Blue Note.
I return to the desk, dropping into the chair with sudden decision. My fingers fly over the keys, describing Orien’s violent response to the trafficker’s threat, the accuracy of his strikes, the blood on the pavement. Clinical. Dispassionate.
But when I reach the moment when Orien turns to the girls, I pause.
Subject then approached the victims, offering reassurance and—
I stop, fingers frozen above the keys. What comes next? He promised safety? Protection? He and his crew had blankets and water waiting? Transport arranged to take the girls somewhere safe?
That this wasn’t the first time they’d done an operation like this?
The cursor blinks, patient and accusing.
I hit backspace, deleting the incomplete sentence. Then I delete the line above it. And the one above it, too.
I open a new document.
No identifiable subjects. No actionable intelligence. I write Orien out of it, reduce the whole night to a waste of my time.
My hand is steady when I attach it. Steadier than it has any right to be.
I hit send.