Jamie's hand was cool in mine.
The handshake lasted exactly two seconds — long enough to seal the agreement, short enough to maintain professional distance. When she released my grip, her eyes were still calculating, still measuring, still building a profile I couldn't see.
"Now that we've established terms," she said, "let's discuss specifics."
She walked back to her desk and pulled out a folder — thin, professional, containing documents I couldn't read from this distance. The shift in her demeanor was subtle but unmistakable. We'd moved from negotiation to implementation.
"Your current operations are adequate for local work," Jamie said. "The fixer reputation you've built serves its purpose. But you've been operating in spaces that intersect with my interests more frequently than I'd prefer."
"I go where the work is."
"And the work keeps bringing you closer to my organization." She opened the folder and spread three photographs across the desk. I recognized two of them — crew leaders I'd negotiated with during the Delacruz-Santos resolution. The third was someone I didn't know: a woman with sharp features and expensive clothes.
"Elena Marchetti," Jamie said, tapping the unknown photograph. "She manages distribution for my northeastern operations. Three weeks ago, she started asking questions about a fixer named Moriarty who'd resolved a territorial dispute without her authorization."
"I didn't know the dispute affected your operations."
"You didn't ask." Jamie's voice was mild, but the correction was clear. "That's the problem with independent operators. They move through spaces without understanding whose interests they're disturbing."
I studied the photograph of Elena Marchetti, filing her face in the Memory Palace. Another variable I hadn't known about. Another complication in a game I was still learning to play.
"What do you want from me?" I asked.
"Information exchange. Nothing more complicated than that." Jamie closed the folder. "When you encounter matters that might affect my operations, you inform me. When I need local intelligence, you provide it. In exchange, I ensure my people understand you're not to be touched."
"That's what Moran already promised."
"Moran's tolerance is organizational. Mine is personal." She smiled, and it was the first expression I'd seen from her that felt genuinely warm. "The difference is that I can revoke it much more quickly."
The implication was clear. Moran operated within protocols — there were processes, chains of command, procedures to follow. Jamie operated on instinct. If she decided I was no longer useful, there would be no negotiation, no warning, no second chance.
"I accept," I said. "Information exchange, nothing more. My operations remain independent."
"For now." Jamie stood and walked toward the gallery door, signaling that the meeting was over. "Prove interesting enough to stay independent. Bore me, and I'll find other uses for you."
I followed her through the gallery, past the paintings that documented her particular vision of the world. The violent reds and controlled chaos felt different now that I understood who I was dealing with. Not an artist with unusual methods, but someone who saw destruction as an aesthetic choice.
At the entrance, Jamie paused. "One more thing."
"Yes?"
"Sherlock Holmes." She turned to face me, her expression unreadable. "You've been cultivating a relationship with him. Anonymous tips, professional consultations, the careful positioning of someone who wants to be noticed."
I kept my face neutral. "He's useful. And interesting."
"He's both. He's also mine." The possessiveness in her voice was absolute. "I have plans for him that don't involve complications from ambitious fixers. Whatever game you're playing with Sherlock, play it carefully. If you damage what I'm building there, no amount of interesting will save you."
"Understood."
"I hope so." She opened the door, letting in the cold Manhattan night. "I'll be watching, Cash Dalton. Don't make me regret letting you leave."
I walked out of the gallery into air that felt almost warm after the particular chill of Jamie's attention. Behind me, the door closed with a quiet finality.
I'd done it. Negotiated with Jamie Moriarty, established terms that let me keep operating, survived the most dangerous meeting of my new life.
And my hands weren't shaking.
Vex materialized beside me as I walked toward the subway. "That took longer than expected."
"She wanted to be thorough."
"Are you aligned now? Part of her organization?"
"Information exchange. Nothing more." I pulled the watch from my pocket — still frozen at 3:47, still mysterious, still somehow connected to everything I didn't understand about my existence. "She's watching. She's interested. She's not attacking."
"Is that enough?"
"It has to be."
I climbed down into the subway station, leaving Jamie's gallery behind. The portrait she'd painted was still in my apartment, watching my desk with eyes that understood more than they should.
The only thing worse than being Jamie's enemy was being interesting enough to keep around.
I was beginning to understand just how true that was.
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