Page 10 of Dominion's Guard
"Walk with me," he says, and leads me into one of the small rooms off the hallway. He shuts the door and keeps it brief.
"Margot wants Rapier Strategic running protection and a parallel investigation. NOPD handles the official side. You handle the official side. We share what's useful, keep what's sensitive on our end."
"Then here's my first share. The parking garage cameras were remotely wiped. Professional-grade hack, timed around the killing. And Blanchard's family filed a missing persons report this morning."
Remy processes that without changing expression. "So she was right."
"She was right. And whoever did this has resources."
"Renata cooperates with you on her terms, not yours. You don't push her, you don't corner her, and you don't pull rank with the badge when you're standing in my sister's club wearing leather." His tone is even but the line underneath it is clear. "She's been through enough since her last shift ended. Earn her trust or you get nothing."
"I don't plan on pulling rank."
"Good." He opens the door. "Then we won't have a problem."
It's a leash, and he's not subtle about it. But it also tells me Remy respects the investigation enough to give me access at all, and that Margot trusts me not to drag the club and its members through the mud. I'll take the leash for now. It won't stay on forever.
The main floor is filling up for a Saturday night, the warm lighting and low music settling over the room along with the smell of good bourbon and leather and something floral I can never quite place. I take my usual seat at the far end of the bar, back to the wall, with a full view of the floor and both exits. The seat is habit from the job and preference from the lifestyle. A Dom who can't see the whole room isn't paying attention.
Renata is working.
She has her hair pulled back in that tight ponytail, and the overhead light catches the dark auburn and turns it copper at the edges. Her sleeves are rolled to the elbow, forearms taut as she reaches for bottles, and she moves through drink orders with a precision most people mistake for effortlessness. I know better. That control is practiced and earned, built into every movement until it became native.
I've spent months studying this woman across this bar, and the view has never gotten easier to look away from.
It's not the face, though her face is worth the time. A full mouth, hazel eyes that shift between green and brown depending on the light. It's how she carries herself. She's athletic, curved in ways she doesn't try to emphasize but can't hide behind the bar, and she moves through her space with an awareness that goes beyond good bartending. She tracks the room with a vigilance that reminds me of operators I've known, cataloging positions and exits like someone who learned a long time ago that knowing where the doors are keeps you alive.
A Dom approaches the bar. I've seen him here before, mid-forties, a regular. I've sat in on a couple of his scenes, impact play mostly. He leans on the rail and says something that makes Renata tilt her head, her mouth curving into that sharp smile she uses when she's about to take someone apart.
She responds. He laughs, leans closer, says something I can't hear over the music. She builds his drink while she talks, hands never pausing, and I note how she gives him enough attention to feel welcome and not one fraction more. She's polite. She's warm. And the warmth has a perimeter around it that could stop a freight train.
He lingers. He tries another line. She sets down his drink, says something short, and turns to the next order. He's been dismissed. He picks up his glass and retreats to a table,shoulders carrying the slump of a man who just realized he never had a chance.
I know the feeling. The difference is that I'm not done trying.
She spots me within minutes of my sitting down. The recognition registers and leaves just as fast, replaced by the professional mask. She finishes a pour, sets the glass on the bar, then moves to my end with deliberate nonchalance, taking her time and making me wait. She knows I know what she's doing, and she does it anyway because bratting is breathing for Renata.
"Woodford Reserve on the rocks?" she asks, already reaching for the bottle.
"Please."
She builds the drink without looking at me, pours with hands that are steadier than they were at four this morning, sets it on a napkin. Her fingers brush the glass as she slides it across, close enough to mine that I feel the warmth off her skin. She doesn't pull away fast. Neither do I.
"You look better than last time I saw you," I say.
"Last time you saw me, I'd watched someone get murdered and then got dismissed by NOPD. Not exactly a high point to improve on."
"I'm not the officer who dismissed you."
"You're still NOPD."
"I am. But I'm here, and they're not. How are you sleeping?"
"Like a baby. If the baby recently witnessed an execution and has two guys from Rapier Strategic parked outside her apartment building." She meets my eyes for the first time. The hazel is sharp and guarded, layered with an irritation that reads as dismissal and tastes like fear underneath. "Did you come here to check on me, Detective? Because I'm working."
"I came here for a drink. The checking on you is a bonus."
"Lucky me." She starts to turn away.
