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“Who’s this pretty boy? Don’t tell me you’ve got a boytoy scampering at your heels now.”
If the jab bothers Casimir, he doesn’t show it. I roll my eyes, having no intention of revealing that I’ve actually got four paramours at the moment. “He’s a good friend, and he can confirm everything I’d like to discuss with you. But the details aren’t anything I think you’d want spoken about in broader company.”
Garom grunts, but he turns and shuffles toward the doorway that leads to the building’s back staircase.
As we head up the stairs, I clear my throat. “The proposition I have isn’t just for you but for all three of the Black Talons’ leaders. Are Sonia and Hellar around, or should I arrange to come back another time?”
Garom aims another piercing look at me. “What exactly is this about, girl?”
I lift my chin, letting my smile stretch a little farther despite the tension knotting my stomach. “How would you like to have the ear of the future queen?”
Hardened gang boss though he may be, I’ve managed to shock him. His expression twitches before he checks himself. “Very funny.”
“I’m not joking. I spoke with the heir to the Melchiorek line just a couple of hours ago. She doesn’t support all of her father’s policies, and she’s willing to work with you to make your work go more smoothly.”
Garom’s gift is a knack for separating truth from lies. He’ll be able to tell that I’m being honest.
I’ve managed to strike him speechless for a few seconds. His throat works with a swallow, and then he swings his arm for us to continue following him up the stairs. “Come on, then. I should be able to round up my colleagues if you aren’t in a terrible hurry.”
Relief trickles through my chest. I really didn’t want to have to stew in anticipation for another day—or to give the Black Talons’ bosses extra time to scheme amongst themselves.
Garom brings us not to his personal office but to a larger space set up like a sitting room. Several padded armchairs stand in a loose ring that fills most of the space, with side tables between them and a lower table in the middle that looks as if the legs could be heightened if one wanted to play cards at it.
A faint sour scent drifts from the extensive liquor cabinet against one wall. Those walls are thick enough to shut out all the noise from the gambling hall that filters up through the gap around the godlen statue outside.
“Sit,” Garom tells us, and pokes his head back into the hall. After a quick muttered conversation with a lackey, he returns and drops into one of the chairs opposite the two Casimir and I have chosen.
He watches Casimir rather than me as he slides off his wig. Wanting to evaluate the unknown party’s reaction, I assume.
Because underneath that wig, the gang boss’s scalp is shaved and scarred with a chaotic mess of lines where he sacrificed a significant portion of skin—along with who knows what else that I can’t see—for his gift. It’s a tradition among the Black Talons families, although only known in the sort of circles they usually run in.
To someone unfamiliar with the city’s underworld, it’ll simply look disturbing.
Casimir’s mild expression doesn’t flicker at all, but then, I told him in advance what to expect. He tips his head toward the other man. “I appreciate you taking the time to hear us out.”
Garom’s eyebrows leap up again. “You’re one for pretty speech, huh? And what’s that in your mouth there?”
I tense, but Casimir obligingly parts his lips again to give a quick view of the jeweled teeth that replaced the eight molars he sacrificed.
Garom looks at me, his voice taking on an edge of a sneer. “You brought some gaudy teeth for your royal offering? What, is he the princess’s boytoy?”
I harden my gaze. “He’s familiar with the inner workings of court and a trusted friend to the future queen as well as me. You can count on him to know more about what’s possible than I do. Think of him as her representative in this meeting.”
The gang boss simply guffaws at my words, but he doesn’t make any more heckling remarks. Casimir’s demeanor remains as unruffled as ever.
The door squeaks open, and a statuesque woman strides in. She sets her hands on her hips and studies the three of us with a faintly irritated expression.
I’ve only seen Sonia Alinnya at a distance before, but everyone in Crow’s Close knows she’s the matriarch of another of the three Black Talons families. Her scalp is as scarred as Garom’s, though she’s let the dark hair that can still grow tumble down to her shoulders in its uneven waves, partly hiding the pattern of her sacrifice.
It’s hard to tell how many years she has under her belt with the simple but stark cosmetics that sharpen her features, but I know she has children older than me.
“What’s this all about?” she demands.
Garom motions her toward the chairs. “Ivy and her friend are going to explain. I think it’ll be worth hearing them out.”
Sonia grimaces, but she trusts her colleague enough to drop into one of the chairs. She considers her fingernails and then me and Casimir with equal intentness, but she doesn’t speak.
I don’t see any point in launching into my pitch until the third person who needs to hear it arrives.
