Page 29 of Antihero

“Monica,” she slurred. “I’m Monica.”

“Please get Ms. Monica any medical attention she might need. And a car back to the city.”

Rawlings materialized once more at Evan’s back. “Mr. Devine is ready to receive you in the drawing room.”

14Break Point

An endless mahogany bar, bookcases, and wainscoting fringed the vast drawing room. Dominating one wall was a huge pencil-and-watercolor portrait of the great Lebanese writer, calligraphed lines of poetry rendered in flowing black: YOUR PAIN IS THE BREAKING OF THE SHELL THAT ENCLOSES YOUR UNDERSTANDING.

Devine stood waiting behind the bar wearing a wrinkleless linen suit, comb marks in his fresh-showered hair, an exemplar of composure. His pallor was fine, his face snake-oil smooth. He didn’t look beat-up in the least. He might’ve just strolled in from a week at the spa.

Evan watched him. Closely.

Devine perched his hands on the bar. “May I offer you something?”

Beside the Kauffman Luxury Vintage, Evan’s favorite liquid on the planet, a fluted bottle of Chopin Family Reserve stood proudly on the rise of shelves. The extra-rare young-potato vodka had been rested for two years in half-century-old Polish oak barrels. Touch of earth, touch of sweetness, and a lingering, warm finish as smooth as a sleight of hand.

Evan pointed. “Neat. Chilled.”

From the neighboring barstool, Joey gave him a nervous look. Aside from the three of them, the drawing room was empty.

Evan said, “She’ll have an Aperol spritz.”

Joey’s eyebrows conveyed dismay but she kept her mouth shut. Two cold-air diffusers spun the scent of desert rose through the room. Rawlings caught Evan’s eye, gave a tiny nod, and withdrew.

Devine poured two fingers of Chopin into a chilled snifter. Then he fixed Joey’s drink in a balloon glass, showcasing the vibrant orange. Equal parts prosecco and Aperol, splash of soda water, large clear ice cubes.

“Aren’t you having anything?” Evan asked.

“I am,” Devine said, “the picture of temperance.” He reached beneath the bar, came up with a gleaming black humidor. The lid lifted, emitting a breath of leather, leaf, and spice. Withdrawing two Romeo y Julietas, he walked a long, long way to the bar’s service entrance at the end, exited, and huffed down into one of two facing leather armchairs. Between them sat a low bar cart with a lace metal fringe, laden with smoking accoutrements.

Evan joined him, removing his label, moistening the tip, and opting for a wedge cut. He lit his cigar with a stick of cedar lining from a box which he ignited with a struck match.

Over at the bar, Joey watched breathlessly. She sipped her drink, her face contorting in a microexpression of disgust from the bitterness, and set it carefully back down.

Devine lit up from a triple-jet torch, drew in a puff, and leaned back, crossing his legs to expose a sockless ankle and the sleek tan sole of a size 7 saffiano-leather loafer. “Well?”

“I need to go look into something,” Evan said.

“The damsel in distress?”

“Yes.”

“The girl the girl saw.”

“Yes. But I can’t leave you here unsupervised.”

“Why not?”

“You know why not. Or you wouldn’t have called me.”

Devine sipped at his cigar and settled back once more, thin arm dangling at his side, smoke wisping from the down-tilted cherry. “Forgetting your Sun Tzu already? ‘Pretend arrogance and encourage inferiority.’” The red-and-gold label glinted. “I’ve granted momentary control to you here at the estate.” The faintest wobble modulated his voice, the first indication of internal pressure since his reemergence. “What is it precisely that you are asking for?”

“Why did you call me, Devine?”

Luke sucked the cigar, popped his lips, shot a ring through a ring. “To settle me down. I’m settled. So.” A regal tip of his head. “I thank you.”

Evan pictured a young woman borne like a coffin off a midnight subway car, engulfed by a pride of predators. His patience was threadbare.