The ink on our deal wasn't even dry before Damien decided to test me.No welcome drinks. No gentle briefing. No cushy side task to let me "ease in."
"You're coming with me," he said as we stepped out of the Vesper Club's golden light and into the cool darkness of the street.
I narrowed my eyes. "Where?"
"You'll see," he murmured, and the way he said it made me think that seeing might not be the safest option.
The car waiting for us wasn't one of his usual sleek, black sedans that whispered understated wealth. This one was a matte-gray SUV with tinted windows and an engine that rumbled like it had swallowed storms. The smell of leather mixed with faint traces of gun oil as I slid inside.
Damien joined me in the back seat, his phone already in hand. His thumbs moved with measured precision, his eyes scanning whatever was on the screen with that unnerving calm of his. No wasted motion. No sign of nerves.
We drove in silence, the hum of the engine broken only by the occasional rattle of the city at night—distant sirens, the low thrum of late-night traffic, the hiss of wind through narrow streets.
Finally, he spoke without looking up.
"There's a warehouse in Dockside. The people there think they've been clever, skimming from one of my shipment accounts. I want to know how much they've taken… and who they've sold it to."
"And if they don't feel like talking?" I asked, keeping my tone neutral.
His lips curved, not quite into a smile—more like a predator tasting the air. "That's why you're here. People open up to women like you. They'll underestimate you… until they don't."
The SUV rolled to a stop near the docks. The warehouse ahead looked like a forgotten relic of another century—rusted shutters, crumbling walls, and a single flickering streetlamp that made the shadows twitch. From the outside, it looked abandoned. But the faint thump of bass leaking through the walls told me otherwise.
I arched a brow. "So, is this a nightclub or a crime scene?"
"Both," Damien replied, already stepping out.
Inside, the air was thick with cigarette smoke and the acrid tang of cheap liquor. The hum of conversation was undercut by the clatter of poker chips from a table in the corner. Men in worn leather jackets and steel-toed boots watched us enter with the kind of lazy alertness that said they were used to trouble… but wanted to see who would make the first move.
Damien didn't bother with introductions. He walked straight toward the back office, a small room barely separated from the main floor by a warped door.
The man behind the desk looked up mid-laugh, his smirk freezing as his eyes landed on Damien. The color drained from his face like water from a cracked cup.
"Cross," he said slowly, his tone shifting from casual to careful.
"Silas," Damien replied, voice like silk over a blade. "You've been busy."
Silas's gaze flicked to me—sizing me up, then dismissing me just as quickly. Mistake number one.
Damien leaned against the desk, his stance loose but radiating the kind of unshakable authority that made the room feel smaller. "You've been skimming from my shipments. I don't like that."
Silas's smirk returned, but it was weaker now, forced. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Before Damien could answer, I stepped forward, letting my heels click against the cracked floor like a metronome counting down. I placed a small flash drive on the desk, the plastic making a sharp tap against the wood.
"Strange," I said lightly, "because this drive is full of transaction records that tell a very different story. Offshore accounts. Dummy invoices. Fake suppliers. You've been very… creative, Silas."
His jaw tightened. The poker players outside had gone quiet.
Damien's eyes slid toward me, a glimmer of approval passing through them. "Where'd you get that?"
I smiled faintly. "Let's just say your IT guys need better passwords."
Silas shifted in his chair, his fingers drumming an uneven rhythm on the desk. "Look, I can explain—"
"Don't," Damien cut him off, his voice dropping into that dangerous calm. "You have two choices. Tell me who you sold it to… or Elara here will start reading out the list of accounts you've been hiding. And trust me—some of those names won't like the exposure."
The silence stretched. I could almost hear the gears turning in Silas's head—the calculation of risk, the cost of betrayal, the weight of consequences.
It took less than thirty seconds for him to break. Words spilled out—names, dates, locations. Every confession was another nail in his coffin.
When we stepped back into the night, the air felt sharp and cold, as if the city itself was holding its breath.
"You didn't hesitate," Damien said as we walked toward the SUV.
"I told you I was dangerous," I replied, my voice steady.
"Good," he murmured, almost to himself. "Because this was the easy part."
I slid into the seat, the door shutting out the noise of Dockside. My pulse was still racing, but somewhere beneath the adrenaline, there was something else—a dangerous thrill.
If this was Damien's idea of easy, I wasn't sure if I should be excited… or terrified… for what came next.