Page 32 of Brutal
I move through the main room without breaking stride.
A server shifts aside with a silent nod. No one stops me. No one would.
My office sits behind a paneled corridor off the back lounge, removed from the performance of the club. The room is dark wood, black leather, clean lines. No family photographs. No personal clutter. A decanter on the sideboard. Files in locked drawers. One painting worth more than most men make in a year, hung not because I like it but because my father once told me a room should contain at least one thing no guest can afford to damage.
Nate is already inside.
He stands near the window with his hands in his pockets. My middle brother always looks composed. It’s one of the things that makes people underestimate how dangerous he is. His hair is the same color as mine, though not as unruly.
He turns as I enter. “What is it? Why the summons? You’re lucky I was already here.”
Right. Nate comes when I call. He has to. He’s the fixer, the consigliore.
“I had dinner with her.” I cross to the sideboard, pour two fingers of bourbon into a glass, and set the decanter down without offering him one.
Nate can pour his own drink if he wants one. He doesn’t.
“How did that come about?” he asks.
“You’re the one who told me to pay more attention,” I say.
“It’s just a question, Sam.”
Nothing is just a question with Nate. I shrug. “She accepted when I asked her.”
“I’ve been thinking. I don’t think she’s random. She didn’t just happen to cross your path.”
I lean one hip against the edge of my desk. “Nothing is random if you stare at it long enough.”
He rolls his eyes. “That line works on other people.”
“It should work on you. You’re the one who says it.”
He almost smiles. Almost. Then he takes a few steps toward me. “She appears out of nowhere. She gets close to you too quickly. She asks careful questions. She pays attention to things most women wouldn’t even clock.”
“Most women bore easily.”
“This one doesn’t.”
“No.”
He meets my gaze, stares at me for a moment. Then, “Jesus Christ. You’re interested.”
“Of course I’m interested. I want to know what she’s after.”
He narrows his eyes. “That’s not what I mean.”
I turn the glass in my hand, watch the amber liquor move against crystal. “You looked into her.”
“I look into everyone.”
“That’s how I know you looked into her, genius. So?”
He doesn’t answer right away, which is an answer in itself. Nate likes facts. When facts don’t line up, he gets nervous.
“There’s enough there to be real,” he says finally. “She’s a journalist. Independent. But she hasn’t sold anything in a while. So I feel like there’s enough missing to be deliberate.”
“You sound annoyed.”
