He doesn’t offer his hand. Smart man. We’ve worked together long enough to skip the pageantry. Instead, he tosses a signal to a server, and a drink lands in my hand before the blood on my boots is dry.
“Join me,” he says, gesturing to the private booth beside his elevated seat.
I follow. Might as well see what tonight’s bribe looks like.
We sit. Music blaring below, conversation buzzing like flies. The booth dims around us, privacy screen flickering up with a faint hum.
“I heard it was clean,” he says.
“It was.”
“Did he beg?”
“He blinked.”
Petru chuckles. “You always did know how to send a message.”
He leans in, voice dropping like we’re in on a secret. “This senator... He thought he was untouchable. Thought he could put chains on Kiphian trade, like we’re pests to be exterminated. Idiot didn’t realize he was chewing glass.”
“Now he’s choking on it.”
His eyes gleam. He loves this part. The talking. The gloating. Like the kill was a political masterpiece instead of a quick job in a dark room.
That’s when the curtain behind us rustles and someone steps in.
Silpha.
She’s aged, but not soft. Lines around her mouth like they were carved with a blade, sharp eyes always calculating. Shewears administrative grays, unadorned, like armor against the nonsense her brother cloaks himself in.
“Traz,” she says, cool as ever.
“Silpha.” I nod once.
“You’re late,” she says to Petru.
He waves her off. “We’re celebrating.”
She doesn’t look at me. Not directly. But I can feel the way her eyes linger. Measuring. Judging. Like she’s still not sure what category to put me in—tool or threat.
She leans toward her brother. “The vaults need review. You’re three shipments behind on rotation and the workers are starting to?—”
“Later,” Petru says, waving a jeweled hand. “I have a guest.”
“I’m aware.” She shoots him a thin smile. “You usually bring out the wine when you’re feeling nervous.”
He scowls. “Don’t ruin the mood.”
“I’d never dream of it.”
She turns and walks away without another word.
Petru watches her go, expression unreadable for a moment.
“Useful, but joyless,” he mutters. “That’s Silpha. She runs numbers like a droid and has the charm of a cold knife. But I suppose that’s what you get when you promise your dying mother you’ll keep your baby sister safe forever.”
I say nothing.
Petru finishes his drink. “She’s been tense lately. Worrying about the books, the shipments, power balances. She forgets sometimes that fear is the only currency that matters out here.”
