The back room of "The Blue Velvet" club smelled of stale beer and expensive leather.
Vargas sat behind his mahogany desk, counting stacks of cash. He was a thick man, built like a vending machine, with a neck that disappeared into his shoulders. He didn't like problems. Problems cost money.
"So," Vargas said, not looking up from the money. "Let me get this right. Marcus is dead. Throat crushed. And Leo is in the hospital, writing love letters to the cops."
Tony, his lieutenant, shifted uncomfortably. "Leo ain't talking, boss. He's just... scared. Says a demon jumped them."
Vargas stopped counting. He looked up. His eyes were small, dark beads sunk into doughy flesh.
"A demon," Vargas repeated flatly.
"Yeah. Says the guy was crying one second, then snapped. Broke Marcus's neck like it was a twig."
Vargas lit a cigar, the flame illuminating the deep scars on his knuckles. "Marcus was six-foot-four. He boxed semi-pro. You're telling me some crying accountant took him out?"
"Dashcam footage confirms it," Tony said, pulling out a tablet. "Police got a frame. Guy was wearing a suit. Cheap one. Looks like an office drone."
Vargas stared at the grainy image on the tablet. The glowing eyes. The posture.
He exhaled a cloud of smoke. "That ain't an accountant. That's a hitter. A pro making it look sloppy."
"What do we do?" Tony asked.
Vargas slammed his hand on the desk. "We find him. This is my district. Nobody kills my earners and walks away. I want a sweep. Check the office buildings on 4th and Main. Look for a guy with a limp. Look for a guy with bruised ribs."
"And when we find him?"
Vargas smiled, showing gold-capped teeth. "Bring him here. I want to see this 'demon' cry before I peel his face off."
11:00 PM
Arvin stood in front of his bathroom mirror.
He looked terrible. The bruise on his ribs had turned a sickly green-yellow. His eyes were bloodshot. He hadn't slept in twenty hours because he was afraid to close his eyes.
Sleep meant letting go of the wheel.
"We need to talk," Arvin whispered to his reflection.
The reflection stared back. For a moment, it was just Arvin—tired, scared, pathetic.
Then, the expression shifted. The eyebrows lowered slightly. The chin tilted up. The fear evaporated from the eyes, replaced by a cold, bored intelligence.
I'm listening, Dante's voice echoed in his skull.
"No more killing," Arvin said, his voice trembling. "That's the rule. You broke the rule."
They had weapons, Arvin. They were going to stab you. Would you prefer to be bleeding out in the mud right now?
"You could have just disabled them!" Arvin argued. "You broke his neck!"
He was a threat. I neutralized the threat. Permanent solutions are the most efficient.
"The police are looking for us!" Arvin shouted, gripping the edge of the sink. "The Detective has a photo! If she connects the dots, we go to prison. And if we go to prison..."
He stopped. The thought of a cell—a small, locked box—made his chest tight.
If we go to prison, the Other One wakes up, Dante finished for him. I know. Why do you think I'm being so careful?
"Careful?" Arvin laughed hysterically. "You left a body in an alley!"
I left a message, Dante corrected. But you're right. The Detective is... problematic. She's smarter than I anticipated.
The reflection in the mirror smiled. It wasn't a nice smile.
Perhaps we should remove her from the equation.
Arvin went cold. "No. No way. You don't touch Erin. She's a cop. You kill a cop, the whole city comes down on us."
She is hunting us, Arvin.
"I said no!" Arvin smashed his hand against the mirror. The glass didn't break, but the sting sobered him up. "If you hurt her, I swear to God, I will go to the precinct tomorrow and confess. I will tell them everything. I will let them lock me up and throw away the key."
Silence stretched in the bathroom. The water dripped from the faucet. Plip. Plip.
Dante weighed the threat. He knew Arvin was weak, but he also knew Arvin was desperate. A desperate sheep could do stupid things.
Fine, Dante conceded, his voice dripping with disappointment. The Detective lives. For now. But if she corners us... all bets are off.
Arvin exhaled, slumping against the wall. "Just... stay asleep tonight. Please. I need to rest."
Rest, Arvin, Dante whispered. I'll keep watch. The wolves are circling.
The Next Morning
The subway station was packed. Bodies pressed against bodies. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and ozone.
Arvin stood near the doors, clutching his bag. He felt exposed. Every time someone looked at him, he flinched.
Check the office buildings on 4th and Main.
He didn't know about Vargas's order, but he could feel the eyes.
A man in a leather jacket bumped into him. Hard.
"Watch it," the man grunted.
Arvin instinctively checked his pockets. Phone. Wallet. Still there.
He looked at the man. The guy wasn't a mugger. He was just a commuter.
But three cars down, a man was watching. He wore a heavy coat and a baseball cap pulled low. He wasn't looking at his phone. He wasn't reading a book. He was staring at the bruise peeking out from Arvin's collar.
The man pulled out a phone and dialed.
"Yeah, Tony? I think I found him. 4th Street Station. Kid looks like he went ten rounds with a truck. Heading toward the financial district."
Arvin didn't see the man. The train doors opened, and he stepped out, swallowed by the morning crowd, unaware that the hunt had officially begun.