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So I don’t.
Instead, I turn toward him, curling onto my side, and his arm comes around my waist, pulling me closer until my head rests on his chest. His heart beats a steady rhythm beneath my ear in counterpoint to my own racing pulse, and his hand strokes my back in slow, even circles.
“Stay,” he says again.
I nod against his chest, too tired to do anything else, and his arm tightens around me, holding me close as sleep begins to claim me. My eyes drift closed, then open one last time to find him watching me with a softness I’ve never seen before.
“Thank you,” I manage, the words thick with approaching sleep.
His fingers thread through my hair, the touch impossibly gentle after everything else. “Sleep, trouble. I’ve got you.”
And despite every reason why I should doubt, I believe him.
19
Ishift in my desk chair, the vinyl sticking to the back of my thighs as I struggle to focus on the document spread before me. The overhead lamp casts a tight circle of yellow light, leaving the rest of the room in shadow.
It’s been a few days since I spent the night at Orien’s apartment, another Thursday passing where I didn’t go to the Blue Note Lounge. Only this time, instead of it being a quiet rebellion to show Orien he couldn’t dictate my movements, it’s because I’m still struggling to remember where my loyalties lie.
Outside my window, the city continues its rhythm, while inside, everything narrows to the single page of family business that will change everything.
I run my finger along the first line of text, the paper cool beneath my touch. “Phase One: Inspection Cycle. Locations: North Ashford warehouse, River Street logistics, Blue Note service entrance.”
Each word burns itself into my memory. I’ve been doing this since I was seventeen, reading, memorizing, and destroying important documents. My fingertips trace the neat block of text describing the systematic inspection, the specific trucking companies slated for questioning, and the liquor licenses marked for sudden, intensive reviews.
“Phase Two: Supplier Disruption. Timeline: 48 hours.”
I read it twice, committing each name and date to memory. Russo Distilleries, first to be notified. Empire Paper, second. Tri-State Glass and Spirits, third. Three companies supply sixty percent of the Blue Note’s inventory, all with pressure points that can be triggered in sequence, designed to bleed the business from its feet up.
The typeface blurs as I reach the final section. “Phase Three: Enforcement. Coordinate with the local precinct for neighborhood inspection after supplier pressure builds. Target date: 72 hours post-initiation.”
Three days. It’s all my uncle would give them.
The kitchen matches crack as I strike them together, their sulfur scent rising before the flame catches. I hold the document by its corner, watching the fire crawl up the paper, turning it black. The heat nips at my fingers before I drop it into the metal wastepaper basket, watching as the flames curl around the words.
Three phases. Three days. One dead business.
The smoke rises, carrying the acrid tang of burnt paper and ink. I should open a window, but I stay seated, watching the evidence turn to ash.
My hands lie flat on the desk when it’s done, fingers splayed across the smooth surface. For the first time since accepting this assignment, I don’t run the plan for efficiency. I run it for impact.
I picture the Blue Note empty, its windows dark, the furniture cleared, and the walls stripped bare. I picture Kain’s equipment being loaded into a van by strangers. I picture Petra sitting at the curb, her phone in her hand, trying to find work for everyone who’ll be out of a job when the place closes. I picture the favor ledger with Ghost’s perfect handwriting, all those careful balances tipping into the red with no way back.
I picture Orien standing in the dim light, his face as it was when he looked at me in his bed, and my heart twists behind my sternum.
If I warn the Blue Note, the Vartanians will know I’m compromised. If I do nothing, Orien and his people will be hurt.
I should have walked away from this mission the first night I locked eyes with Orien across the crowded lounge. Then, this wouldn’t hurt so much.
But it’s too late now.
I stand, the chair scraping across the bare floor. My jacket hangs on the hook by the door, the fabric still cool from the night air. I shrug it on, not bothering to zip it, and check my pocket for my phone and wallet.
I scoop my keys from the bowl on the side table and take them with me as I step into the hall. The elevator takes me down to the lobby, its ancient gears grinding between floors.
I push through the front door and out into the winter air. Snowflakes drift from the sky, melting when they hit the pavement, but enough remain on the sidewalks and parked cars to give the night a hushed quality, as if the world is holding its breath.
A couple passes me, their arms linked, laughing as they lean into each other for warmth. Cold flushes the woman’s cheeks, and the man’s hat sits on his brow. They move as one, in tune with each other, and I turn away before they catch me staring.
