10. Liam
LIAM
I slide fresh rounds into the magazine, the motion automatic, my muscle memory doing the work. With my stance set, I align my grip. The target waits—a black silhouette, its chest marked with concentric rings. This place rewards focus and punishes drift.
I raise the pistol, hold my breath, then squeeze.
The shot lands a fraction left of where I want it.
“Damn.”
That’s on me.
Wayward thoughts cost accuracy. Yet she’s there anyway, slipping past the discipline I’m supposed to be enforcing.
Just this morning Gareth from PetBed wouldn’t shut up about her. A photographer, he’d said. Young. Astute. Handled his Ibizan Hound like they’d grown up together. He’d sounded half in awe, half smug about having found her first.
At the ball, I’d pointed her toward the company without thinking much of it. She took it and delivered exactly what she promised, with results that exceeded Gareth’s expectations. He’s a man hard to please, especially when it comes to his own dogs.
Another round chambers with a click.
I fire again. This one hits true.
Still, my focus doesn’t settle the way it should. She’s threaded too deep now—proof that competence gets under my skin faster than charm ever could.
I finish the magazine, clear the weapon, and pack my gear. I head out for my usual spot and order an iced coffee.
My phone buzzes before I take a sip.
I answer, already walking. “Rochemont, you calling to tell me you finally relearned the difference between Brooklyn and Long Island?”
He laughs. “Actually, yes. I’ve decided. Long Island it is. Figured I’d steal your real estate guy.”
“Lady,” I correct. “Happy to make the introduction. You aiming for the water or just the zip code?”
“The water,” he says without hesitation. “By the way, managed to get the company back on its feet. Properly this time. Major investment firm came in—Greigson. Serious backing.”
I slow my steps.
“Congrats, man. That’s huge,” I say, meaning it. “Next time, the burgers are on you.”
“Huh. I won’t even try to compete.” Then his voice drops a notch. “Hey. Are you somewhere quiet?”
I stop walking.
“Why?”
“I really need you to be somewhere quiet.”
Something in his voice tells me this isn’t about houses or funding.
The city noise presses in around me, horns cutting through the air, bodies brushing past, nowhere to stand still.
“Give me a second,” I say.
I reach my car and unlock it, sliding into the driver’s seat. The iced coffee goes into the holder. I pull the door shut and the outside is reduced to movement behind glass.
“Alright,” I say. “What’s up?”
He doesn’t answer immediately.
Then: “The Velvet Game.”
Something draws tight beneath my ribs. Recognition. Memory. That old charge that used to sit just under the skin. Panther and Joker, some of the most ruthless rounds we ever ran.
“You remember what it takes to play,” I say.
“I do. That’s why I’m asking you.”
I exhale. “It’s not my call.”
“I know, Hunt.”
We played. That was the extent of it, as far as he ever understood. He never knew who actually holds the Game, or how tightly I’m woven into it.
“It requires unanimity,” I add. “No exceptions.”
“I’m prepared for that,” he replies.
I let out a quiet breath. “I know you are. That’s not the issue. You’ve been out of circulation for a while,” I say. “That’s what we need to look at.”
“I get it,” he says again. I can almost picture him nudging my elbow. “Come on, Hunt. I want her to see what I can do.”
So that’s who this is for.
He’s not the first to come to the Game with someone in mind. That part is familiar. What’s different is him—Victor asking to be seen this way. Not bending the rules. Just stepping into something he’s never needed before.
The Game sets the limits first, then watches what a person does inside them.
Every rule is agreed to in advance. Every boundary is enforced.
But at some point, it will stop being fantasy and start asking something real of you—and you don’t even know it.
What matters is how much you want to stay once that line is crossed, and how deeply you commit when there’s no ambiguity left.
“Okay,” I say at last. “I’ll raise it with them. No promises.”
“That’s all I’m asking. I still have my mask, if that counts for anything.”
“You’ll get a new one,” I decide.
“It’s been that long, huh?”
“Yeah.”
He hears time in it. What I mean is something else.
Marcus, Max, and I assess everyone who steps into the Game. We weigh temperament, ego, fault lines. We decide who wears what. The mask isn’t decoration. It’s assignment. We choose the persona before the player ever steps into the room.
Victor has asked for entry. It’s procedure, that’s all. And still, my mind lands on her first. Helena deserves more than a trickster in painted grin. If he’s coming back, he does it as a man who stands firm in it, not as a wildcard looking for applause.
“I’ll let you know,” I say.
He exhales. “Thanks, man.”
I remain behind the wheel with the engine off. Once a name is spoken, it doesn’t disappear. The Game never forgets who asks to enter.