Chapter 53 #2
"If this goes sideways, if we get caught—this isn’t some slap on the wrist, Kath. We’re not bending the rules anymore. We’re committing a felony."
She shook her head, already rejecting the idea, but he cut her off with a look.
"I’ve already made my choice. I’ll cross the line. Hell, I’ll draw a new one in blood if I have to. But not with your name next to mine."
Kath stared at him, stunned silent.
And then—softly, fiercely—"You think I’ll let you rot alone in this? Not a chance." Her voice trembled—not with fear, but with fury. "You’re mine in this, Ben. Every step, every consequence. I’ll carry it with you. For the rest of my goddamn life."
They stood like that. Face to face. And for a breath, Ben couldn’t look away. He’d expected defiance—maybe even anger. But not this. Not that kind of fury—the kind that promised she'd walk into the fire barefoot just to make sure he didn’t burn alone.
It knocked something loose in him.
She wasn’t backing down.
And suddenly, the weight didn’t feel so impossible.
Then—Julian walked in.
Stretching his arms like he'd just woken from a nap, all lazy elegance and sharpened grin.
He took one look at them and smirked.
"Good," he said. "Now that we're all on the same page..."
He pulled out his phone, already scrolling. "I'll make a call." Ben watched him. That grin. That satisfaction. It crawled under his skin like rot. Something dark flickered in his eyes.
"Just make sure this doesn't come back to us," he said.
Julian looked up, smile widening.
"All due respect, brother..." His voice was pure velvet.
His teeth flashed like a wolf's. "This is what I do. It's what I'm really good at."
◆◆◆
The back room reeked of power dressed as decay.
It wasn’t just the stale cigar smoke pressed into the wallpaper like a second skin, or the floor tacky with spilled liquor and time—it was the silence. Heavy, loaded, conspiratorial.
The kind of quiet that knew names and kept them.
The overhead light flickered, buzzing like it resented the intrusion. Ben didn’t blame it.
He stepped in behind Julian, tension knotted beneath his cheekbone, every instinct screaming that this place wasn't meant for people like him.
But maybe that was the lie he needed to stop telling himself.
Julian slipped through the door without hesitation, movements fluid, assured—like a man stepping into his own reflection. One hand in his coat pocket, the other nudging the door open with lazy confidence.
The man waiting for them was already seated.
Older. Hair gone silver at the temples. Suit pressed so sharp it looked carved from bone. His eyes flicked up as they entered—measuring, not greeting. He wasn't interested in conversation. Only results.
Julian's smile was lazy, verging on smug, as he gestured toward the man.
"This is our friend," he said, like they were just here for a favor and a drink.
He turned slightly toward Ben, voice dipping into that familiar, mocking drawl.
"He's going to help us bring the truth to light.
One carefully managed detail at a time."
Ben didn't move.
Didn't speak right away.
He studied the man. The details.
The Rolex. The ink barely peeking from beneath his cuff.
The kind of hands that hadn't lifted anything heavier than a fountain pen in years—but still looked capable of breaking bones if needed.
Ben's stomach coiled.
But his face stayed blank.
Benjamin watched the exchange unfold, something sour curling in his gut. The room was warm, close, the air thick with old smoke and older rules. He saw how Julian moved here—relaxed, fluent—and it hit him harder than he expected.
This place didn’t tolerate strangers. But Julian wasn’t a stranger. He belonged to it.
And Ben—Ben was already too deep to pretend he didn’t.
"And you trust him?" he asked, voice measured, flat.
Julian laughed. "No," he said. "But I do trust his price."
The man—The Forger—leaned forward, tapping a folder against the scarred wood of the table.
His voice was smooth. Practiced. Like a man who dealt in truth as a weapon, not a principle.
"It'll be done," he said. "You'll have exactly what you need. Timelines. Signatures. Surveillance. The kind of details that convince judges to cry." He added, almost casually, "I’ll need a few days. Some of the dates need verifying, and it takes time to seed the files in the right databases—court systems, firm archives, secure registries. But it’ll hold. It’ll look real.
Because it will be, in all the ways that matter. "
Ben didn't blink.
"But if this goes south," The Forger continued, closing the folder again with a soft snap, "I don't know you. You don't know me." He paused, then added with a flicker of a smile, "Not that it will. This kind of thing? It's never gone wrong. Not once."
Ben stepped forward. Didn't hesitate. He met the man's eyes, expression carved from stone.
"I understand," he said, voice low.
They shook. Brief. Tense. Final.
Kath watched from the edge of the room, arms crossed, shoulders tight. She didn't say a word.
But Ben saw it—the shift in her. The way her gaze dropped to the handshake and lingered there. Like she was watching a bridge burn.
Like she knew there was no turning back.
And she was right.
They walked out with an unspoken agreement hanging between them—no folder, no physical evidence, just a pact that the proof would come.
A promise signed in silence, forged in everything they didn’t say aloud.
Julian looked satisfied, like a man who’d just negotiated a flawless deal.
Ben felt sick, like something vital had just been traded away and there was no getting it back.