Jude looked up.
The restaurant stood alone mid-block. Small. Clean. Unassuming.
He relaxed slightly.
In Gotham, the bigger the target, the more trouble it attracted. Small operations flew under the radar. Safer that way.
"Let me give you some advice," Drake said quietly. "Donald's not simple. The less you talk, the better."
"Meaning the person behind him is dangerous?"
"Meaning Donald himself is dangerous. The person behind him is probably worse."
They walked toward the entrance. Jude's mind drifted to childhood memories. Those sketchy corner stores near his school. Shelves barely stocked, clerks glued to their phones, service nonexistent. No customers. Sometimes no lights. But somehow they stayed open year after year, never going under.
Money laundering fronts, obviously. He'd figured that out as an adult.
Maybe this place would be like that. Quiet. Simple. No drama.
He pushed through the door.
His hopes died instantly.
Past the entrance, a grey corridor opened up. A blonde woman waited there, professional smile already in place. She'd been expecting them.
"Mr. Drake, welcome." She nodded to both of them. "Please, follow me."
The corridor walls bore expensive-looking art. Abstract patterns that probably meant something to people with money. To Jude, they just looked ominous.
The main dining room opened before them.
Floor-to-ceiling wine cabinets lined one wall, bottles arranged like trophies. Warm lighting, just dim enough to feel intimate. Elegant wallpaper. Lush plants in the corners. And the guests—suits that cost more than Jude's entire hypothetical wardrobe, jewelry that could fund a year's rent, manners polished to a shine.
Old money. New money. All money.
"Upper class," Jude muttered. "Real upper class. This is your idea of a small restaurant? Why isn't this place in Diamond District?"
"Otisburg has rich people too." Drake kept his voice low. "This place caters to certain VIPs who prefer... discretion. Just tell me. Do you want to make money or not?"
The receptionist turned back. "Mr. Donald is waiting upstairs. Please follow me."
Well, Jude thought grimly, I'm here now. Might as well see it through.
Drake gave him a look that said stay calm.
They climbed the stairs.
At the top, men in black suits stood at attention on both sides of the corridor. Making space. Making a point. Their posture said welcome but their eyes said try something.
Jude's scalp prickled.
This wasn't some inconspicuous corner operation. This was a set piece. The kind of place where important people had important meetings before important bodies turned up in the river.
He took a breath. Collected his scattered thoughts.
Followed Drake into the office.
The man behind the desk stood when they entered.
Middle-aged. Solid build. Expensive suit that somehow made him look more dangerous, not less. His face was calm, almost gentle, but his eyes stayed sharp.
When he saw Drake, something softened in his expression.
"Drake." Donald's voice was rough gravel smoothed by time. "Haven't seen you in months. You look better."
Drake had spent the last few months grinding himself to dust with worry and sleepless nights. But Donald was right. The heavy weight had lifted. The dark circles and hollow cheeks hadn't vanished overnight, but his eyes were clear. Alive again.
"Yeah. Got lucky." Drake's smile looked genuine. "My wife's illness cleared up. Once we get things settled, we're leaving the city. Going home."
Something flickered in Donald's eyes. Envy, maybe. Longing.
It vanished quickly.
"Spending your life with someone you love." Donald's tone went distant. "That's rare. Even in places like Metropolis. Congratulations, Drake."
"Don't give me that." Drake shook his head. "You're rich. You could go anywhere. Have anything."
"Me?" Donald looked down, smiled without humor. "My parents were from Gotham. I'm from Gotham. I'm staying here."
The words felt final. Heavy.
Drake cleared his throat, breaking the moment. He nudged Jude forward.
"This is my friend. Just arrived in Gotham. Like I said on the phone—he's new, doesn't know the city, and his skills aren't exactly... local. Came to me for help."
Donald's expression shifted. The gentleness evaporated. His face went cold, professional. Gotham native through and through.
He studied Jude. Head to toe. Taking inventory.
"What's your background?"
"College graduate." Jude kept his voice steady. "But from Japan."
Both Donald and Drake stared at him.
Drake especially. His expression said you're a college graduate? I thought you barely finished high school.
Jude's face heated. "The school's standards and my abilities are two different things, okay? Just because the university was decent doesn't mean I am."
"What can you do?" Donald asked.
"Back home I made money writing romance novels." Jude grimaced. "That market doesn't really translate to Gotham."
Drake's head whipped around. Romance novels? His expression said. You said you were a writer and I thought you meant articles or something normal!
Jude avoided his eyes.
"It's okay." Donald nodded. "Honest, at least."
Both Jude and Drake looked at him like he'd grown a second head.
The man writes romance novels, Jude thought. How is that—
"Can you use a gun? Knife?" Donald continued.
"No. But I have one."
Jude reached for his waistband. Froze halfway.
Wait. Pulling a gun in a mob boss's office is probably a bad idea.
He lowered his hand.
"Smart." Donald's expression didn't change. "Not stupid."
He leaned back against his desk. "Why did you come today?"
"For work. Waiter position."
"Brave." Donald studied him. "Lucky too, surviving this long. But you need to learn to shoot. Otherwise you won't last."