The room felt heavier than when we'd first stepped inside. Not loud, never loud, but threaded with that low, layered murmur where every word meant more than it seemed. James hadn't let go of my arm yet, his grip light but constant, guiding me deeper past the first row of tables.
Men glanced up in ones and twos. Some nodded at James, some didn't. The air was thick with smoke from the corner humidor, curling in lazy ribbons that caught the light and blurred the edges of the faces watching us. My pulse had slowed since the street, but it carried a weight now, syncing with the deliberate pace James kept.
We reached a table set slightly apart from the others, its surface bare except for a deck of cards and an ashtray. The man seated there didn't look up right away. He finished a slow draw from his cigar before setting it down and meeting James' eyes.
"Late," the man said. His voice was smooth, the kind of smooth that only came from years of getting what he wanted.
"Detour," James replied.
The man's gaze flicked toward me, lingering just long enough to make my skin prickle, then back to James. "Sit."
It wasn't a request. James moved first, pulling a chair for me before taking his own. My seat gave me a clear view of the room's main entrance, though I had no idea if that was for my comfort or his.
The man leaned forward, elbows braced on the table. "You know why you're here."
James didn't answer immediately, and the pause was an answer in itself. "You've been hearing things," he said finally.
"Not hearing," the man corrected. "Knowing. There's a difference."
His hand slid a single playing card across the table toward James, face down. James didn't touch it. The silence stretched just long enough for me to wonder if I was supposed to look, but the way James' jaw tightened told me not to.
"This is her?" the man asked.
James' eyes didn't leave his. "She's with me."
A slow smile curved the man's mouth, but it didn't touch his eyes. "Then she's in deeper than she realizes."
I opened my mouth to speak, but James' hand found my knee under the table, a silent warning. I closed it again.
The man picked up his cigar, took another long drag, and exhaled through his nose. "Enjoy your drinks. Someone will be in touch."
It was a dismissal, clear and sharp. James rose without another word, his hand steady at my back as we turned away from the table. My heart was still trying to decide if it should be racing again.
The door closed behind us with a muted click, and the air shifted.
The faint hum of conversation from the outer room bled into a heavier quiet here, one that carried weight without sound. My eyes adjusted slowly. Low light pooled across a long table in the center, its surface worn and darkened, the edges softened by years of use. Six chairs were occupied, each by someone who could have been cut from a different city map entirely, different accents, different stances, but they all turned when James entered.
The man at the head didn't stand. He didn't need to. His presence anchored the room, an unspoken gravity that pulled my gaze to him even as I tried to take in the others. Silver threaded through his dark hair, but his eyes were steady, unclouded, and, more than anything, calculating.
"James," he said, his voice even, almost polite. Then his attention shifted to me, holding long enough to make the air between us tighten. "And the guest you've been protecting."
James didn't answer right away. He moved with a measured ease, taking the chair opposite the man. I stayed standing until James gestured, just a small movement of his fingers, to the seat beside him.
"This is my responsibility," James said finally, leaning back slightly, but not enough to read as casual. "She's under my watch, and she stays that way."
One of the others, a broad-shouldered man in a charcoal suit, let out a short laugh. "That depends on what she's bringing to the table, doesn't it?"
James didn't look at him. "She brings nothing to your table because she isn't here to sit at it."
The man's smile faltered, but the head of the table raised a hand, and the room's undercurrent stilled again. He studied me for another long beat before leaning forward, forearms resting on the table.
"There's talk," he said, "that certain people are interested in finding her. People outside our circles. People we'd rather not have knocking on our doors."
I could feel James watching me from the corner of his eye, but his voice stayed level. "And we'll handle it."
The silver-haired man tapped one finger against the wood, slow and deliberate. "You will. But if this brings heat into my house, James, it becomes my problem too. And my solutions are never gentle."
The warning wasn't aimed at me directly, but it sank into my skin all the same. I kept my hands folded in my lap, resisting the urge to glance at James for reassurance.
The conversation moved on after that, names I didn't know, places I didn't recognize, coded references that passed between them like cards in a game I hadn't been invited to play. Still, I listened, trying to stitch meaning from the fragments, aware that every word spoken here mattered more than I yet understood.
When the meeting began to wind down, the silver-haired man's gaze returned to me one last time. "For your sake," he said, "I hope James knows what he's doing."
James rose without replying, his hand finding the small of my back as we turned to leave. The room didn't watch us go, they'd already decided whatever they'd decided, and that, somehow, was worse than open hostility.
The hallway outside felt narrower on the way out, the shadows thicker.
We hadn't even reached the front door when the shift happened.
It wasn't loud, not at first, just the subtle hitch in footsteps somewhere behind us, a rhythm that didn't belong. James caught it before I did; I felt it in the way his hand at my back went from guiding to anchoring.
"Keep walking," he murmured, low enough that I might've imagined it.
The heavyset man who had opened the door earlier was still at his post ahead, but his eyes had already gone past us, narrowing toward the hallway we'd just come from. James didn't turn his head. I didn't either.
The footsteps closed in. Whoever it was wasn't hurrying, but the sound was steady, deliberate, the kind that told you they weren't about to pass you by.
We reached the threshold, and that's when the voice came.
"James."
One word, spoken evenly, but with enough bite that it cut through the low hum of the outer room. James stopped, but only just, his body angling slightly to keep me behind the line of his shoulder.
The man approaching was tall, lean, and dressed in a way that didn't fit the rest of the room, dark wool coat, collar turned up, rain still clinging to the fabric. His hair was slicked back, his face calm in a way that felt studied.
"You forgot something," the man said, his gaze sliding over James and landing squarely on me. "Or maybe you didn't know you had it."
My pulse jumped. James didn't move. "You're in the wrong place to start making claims," he said, tone cool but edged.
"That depends on how fast you want her past debts to catch up," the man replied, the faintest hint of a smile ghosting his mouth.
The room had gone quieter behind us. Even the heavyset doorman seemed to shift his weight, ready for whatever this was about to become.
James took one step forward, closing the space between them just enough to make me feel the heat of his absence at my side. "If you want to collect," he said, "you can take it up with me. Outside."
The man's eyes flickered, the smile sharpening before he stepped back. "Rain's still falling," he said, as though it was an answer. Then he turned, disappearing into the murmur of the outer room.
James didn't wait to see if he'd change his mind. His hand found mine, not the steady guiding touch from before, but a firm clasp that told me we were leaving now. We stepped into the wet night, the air cold enough to bite at my skin, and I realized my hand was still in his.
He didn't let go.
The rain slicked pavement stretched ahead in a long, glistening vein of light. James didn't speak, and I didn't press him. His grip on my hand was steady, not crushing, but enough to make it clear we were moving with purpose.
Instead of turning toward the main streets, he led us deeper into the quieter grid, side lanes where the streetlamps hummed faintly and the shadows under the awnings were thick enough to hide someone for hours. Every so often he glanced over his shoulder, scanning rooftops, corners, and windows as if the city itself could turn hostile at any moment.
The alleys narrowed again, forcing us into single file, his coat brushing my arm as we moved. I caught faint traces of gun oil beneath the sharper scent of the rain.
A recessed metal door appeared in the brick ahead. No sign. No number. Just a worn handle and rust bleeding from the hinges. James knocked once, twice, then paused. The silence stretched just long enough to make me wonder if this was the wrong place. Then the door cracked open and a sliver of warm light slipped into the alley.
The man on the other side didn't say a word, just looked at James, then at me, and stepped aside.
Inside, the air was dry and still. The hallway was lined with dark wood paneling, the kind that absorbed light, with no windows to break it. James took my jacket before I could protest, hanging it on a rack near the door. He moved like he'd done this before, too many times before.
"This is one of mine," he said, finally breaking the silence as he led me toward a set of double doors. "No one gets in without my say."
When the doors opened, the contrast was almost jarring. The room beyond wasn't opulent, but it was deliberate, low amber lighting, heavy leather chairs, a bar stocked with bottles whose labels looked older than me. A fireplace burned low in one corner, its glow throwing restless shadows along the walls.
I felt his eyes on me as I took it in. "Sit," he said, not as an order, but like the word itself carried weight.
I chose the armchair farthest from the door. He crossed to the bar, poured something into two glasses, and brought one to me. The heat of it sank into my palm, but I didn't drink.
"You'll stay here tonight," James said, taking the chair opposite mine. His posture was relaxed, but there was no softness in his gaze. "They won't make another move right away, but when they do, I want you out of their reach."
"Who are they?" I asked.
For a moment, he didn't answer. The fire popped, sending sparks curling into the air. Finally, he said, "People who don't care how they win, as long as they do."
I let the words settle, their edges rough and unfinished. His eyes didn't leave mine, and for a moment, the rest of the room seemed to fade, the low crackle of the fire, the faint smell of smoke, the weight of the glass in my hand.
The fire snapped, throwing sparks that winked out before they touched the stone. James leaned back just enough for his shadow to swallow his eyes."Get some sleep," he said. "It's the only easy thing you'll have for a while."