60. Gabriel
Morning settles over Chicago in a gray-blue haze that clings to the river outside my windows.
The city is already moving—traffic threading across the bridges, commuters spilling from the trains—but my apartment feels unusually quiet.
I stand at the kitchen counter waiting for the coffee to finish brewing, one hand braced against the marble.
I close my eyes for a moment, letting the memory of last night settle over me. Lars drifting so easily into my proximity when I pulled him close. There hadn’t been any uncertainty in the way he touched me, no hesitation in the way his mouth met mine. Just heat and confidence.
The last of the water flows through the grounds in the ceramic pour-over dripper. I remove it, set it in the sink and take that glorious first sip. Dark, hot, and black perfection. I lean against the counter, staring out at the river as the steam curls upward.
Something about last night shifted the ground beneath my feet.
For most of my adult life I’ve treated relationships the same way I treat cities. I pass through them, enjoy what they offer, and move on before anything becomes complicated. It’s a clean system. It’s safe.
Last night didn’t feel safe.
I take another sip of coffee and carry the mug to my desk in my office. I open my laptop and wake the system. Within seconds the encrypted messaging program lights up.
A new notification blinks across the screen. I sit down and open the message.
Snake Charmer: New information. Review immediately.
An attachment appears beneath the text.
I download the file and open it, the screen filling with a complex grid of architectural schematics. The Marchetti estate spreads across the display in precise digital lines. Corridors, structural support systems, camera placements, and access routes layered over one another in meticulous detail.
It’s the blueprints to the house.
I zoom in, scrolling slowly across the estate’s layout. The main house appears, followed by the auxiliary structures. The security system is extensive but predictable. Motion sensors, security posts, and camera rotations. Restricted zones marked clearly.
Then something catches my eye. One wing of the estate doesn’t match the rest. I lean closer to the screen, studying the area more carefully.
The architectural footprint exists, but it’s just a box, the internal walls are missing. Camera coverage ends abruptly at the corridor entrances. Infrastructure schematics fade into blank space.
It’s not an oversight. It’s a blind spot.
I enlarge the section and trace the perimeter with my cursor. Whoever designed this system deliberately limited access to the design of that wing. The lack of documentation creates a vacuum in the data that only one type of facility would justify.
This has to be the server room. My pulse slows as the conclusion settles into place.
And that’s where The Blackwater Key lives.
I lean back in my chair, studying the screen while the realization sinks deeper into my mind. The discovery should feel like progress. This is exactly the kind of breakthrough Sera has been pushing for since she brought me into this operation.
I open the encrypted chat again and type a reply.
Me: Your file has gaps.
Snake Charmer: Not gaps. Blind spots.
Me: One wing is deliberately isolated.
Snake Charmer: That has to be where it’s kept. There’s no other explanation for the missing information.
Me: That’s where their servers are.
Snake Charmer: Most likely.
The cursor blinks for several seconds before the final message appears.
Snake Charmer: Don’t forget why you’re there.
The words linger on the screen long after the chat window goes quiet. I close the laptop slowly and lean back in the chair when my phone rings. The sound breaks through the quiet room, and I turn it over and look at the screen.
Lars’ name appears on the screen. The call isn’t unexpected, but it still makes me pause to take a deep breath.
“Good morning.”
“Morning,” Lars says warmly. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“You’re not.”
There’s a brief silence before he continues.
“Neomi and I were talking this morning.”
My pulse spikes.
“And?” I ask.
“And we’d like to see you again.”
The simplicity of the statement surprises me.
“I would love that. Name the time and place.”
“You could come over this evening, if you’re free,” Lars says. “I’ll send you the address for my penthouse. I can cook, we can relax. But Gabriel, I need you to know that if this continues,” he adds calmly, “it’s with both of us.”
I understand exactly what he means. The corner of my mouth lifts.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The tension in his voice subsides.
“Good,” Lars says. “Then we’ll see you tonight. I’ll send you the address.”
The call ends and I stare at the phone for a moment before setting it down on the desk. Something inside my chest feels unexpectedly light.
I stand, finish my coffee, then head toward the bedroom to shower. By the time I’m dressed for the day, there’s only one thing coursing through my veins.
Anticipation.
The penthouse in the Marchetti Tower sits high above the city, its windows glowing warmly against the darkening skyline when I step out of the elevator later that evening. One of Lars’s security men stands near the door, his posture relaxed but watchful as the elevator doors slide shut behind me.
“Mr. Santori?”
“That’s me.”
The guard reaches for the handle and opens the door before I have a chance to knock.
Warm light spills into the hallway as Neomi stands in the entryway, barefoot, a loose sweater slipping off one shoulder as she looks up and smiles.
“You came.”
“Of course I did.”
She steps aside to let me in. The music playing softly from the living room speakers blends with the sounds of cooking. The space feels lived in—comfortable yet modern furniture, art on the walls, the counter by the stove filled with a cutting board and various vegetables.
Lars stands at the kitchen island with a bottle of wine in hand and three glasses lined up in front of him. He’s in the middle of pouring when I step inside, the rich scent of spices drifting through the room.
He glances up.
“Good evening.” He smiles broadly.
“Evening.”
He finishes filling the third glass before sliding one toward me across the marble counter.
“I hope you’re hungry.”
I take the glass and glance toward the stove where Neomi is stirring something in a wide skillet.
“You didn’t have to go through all this trouble,” I say. “Takeout would’ve been fine.”
Neomi laughs softly and turns to look at me.
“Oh, absolutely not. Once you’ve had a dinner cooked by Lars, you’ll never want takeout again.”
Lars lets out a quiet breath and shakes his head, a flush rising along his neck as he reaches for the cork, placing it back in the bottle.
“She exaggerates.”
“I do not,” Neomi says, leaning her hip against the counter. “The man cooks like an Italian grandmother.”
That earns a reluctant smile from him.
“I like cooking,” Lars admits, lifting his glass. “It’s one of the few things in life where patience actually improves the outcome.”
He takes a sip before adding with quiet amusement, “And I prefer feeding people to ordering food in plastic containers.”
The three of us fall into conversation easily after that. Lars moves between the stove and the counter while Neomi and I lean against the island with our wine. The tension from dinner last night has softened into something more relaxed.
Neomi glances over at me.
“So, where are you from?”
“Virginia,” I say. “A small town outside Roanoke.”
Her eyes brighten. “I’ve passed through that area before.”
“It’s the kind of place people usually pass through,” I reply sarcastically.
Lars studies me over the rim of his glass.
“What was it like growing up there?”
“I grew up in a little town called Cedar Falls,” I add. “Everyone knows everyone else. The biggest excitement most weeks was the high school football game. The town treated every Friday night like a national holiday.”
Neomi laughs. “Sounds riveting.”
Lars smirks.
Neomi tilts her head. “Did you always know you’d leave?”
“I think I figured it out early,” I say. “Small towns are great places to grow up, but they can feel…” I search for the right word. “Limiting once you realize how big the world actually is.”
“And trading was the escape route?” Lars asks.
“Eventually.”
Lars sets his glass down.
“Have you dated while traveling?”
I shrug. “Here and there.”
Neomi studies me with quiet curiosity. “So, is this new territory for you? A situation like the three of us?”
“No,” I say calmly. “I’ve dated the spectrum of genders and a couple once. Attraction’s never been something I’ve limited to one category.”
Lars nods once, absorbing the information without any visible reaction.
“Good to know,” he says simply.
Dinner stretches comfortably once we sit at the table.
The three of us linger there longer than the meal requires, wine glasses slowly emptying while conversation drifts from one subject to another.
Lars moves around the kitchen occasionally when someone needs more water or another slice of bread with the quiet ease of someone who genuinely enjoys feeding people.
Neomi praises the pasta more than once, which earns that flush along the back of his neck every time she does it.
It’s domestic, the way he moves through the kitchen, confident and practiced. It’s evident that his talent comes from years of doing something because he loves it, not because anyone expected it from him.
When we’re finished, Neomi begins to gather the dishes and stands before either of us can move.
“You cooked,” she tells Lars over her shoulder. “You’re not touching the cleanup.”
“I’ll help,” I add.
I rise, stacking the plates before carrying them toward the sink.
Lars watches us for a moment from the table before standing and bringing the wine bottle to the counter. I load the dishwasher while Neomi rinses the last glass and passes it to me.
It feels strangely natural.
When everything is clean, Neomi pours the last of the wine into our glasses and carries them toward the living room. The couch slants toward the tall windows overlooking the city, the skyline glowing softly beyond the glass.
She settles into the center of the couch first, tucking one leg beneath her. I sit beside her while Lars lowers himself onto the other side a moment later.
For a few minutes we simply sit there.
“Thank you for cooking, Lars. Neomi was right, I might be ruined for restaurants now.”
He grins, eyes catching mine. “I’d be happy to cook for you anytime.”
I lean forward, placing my glass on the coffee table. My chest is warm with the wine and the ease of the evening.
“This might sound crazy, and apologies if I’m completely off here, but every time we spend time together, it feels more and more natural. I haven’t felt this way with anyone in,” I exhale a heavy breath, “a really long time.”
Neomi places a hand on my thigh. “You’re not the only one that feels the connection.”
I glance up to see both of them focused on me. I shake my head. “Like I said earlier, I dated a couple in the past, but they weren’t married. There’s still part of me that’s hesitant with that fact. I don’t want to disrupt anything.”
Lars rises from the couch and moves to sit by my side. I can feel the heat of him and fuck, I don’t want to mess this up. I just want them closer, I want more time.
Lars takes my hand. “This is new ground for us too, Gabriel. We’re newly married, but we haven’t made the decision to see you without thought and purpose.”
Neomi leans her head on my shoulder, and my eyes burn with the contact. I feel surrounded, and I want more of it.
“We can figure this out together. We don’t have to put labels on anything, but if we want to see where this goes, I want us to be exclusive to each other,” Lars tells me.
“No worries there,” I say, because fuck, why would I look anywhere else if I had the two of them by my side?
Lars leans back into the couch.
“If we’re going to continue this,” he says calmly, “it won’t be casual.”
I look in his eyes.
“I wouldn’t want it to be.”