Page 7 of The Last Dance

He broke it first. “Thank you,” he said, eyes on the table.

“For what?”

He hesitated. “For—” Then he stopped, shook his head. “Never mind.”

I let the silence stretch. “What’s your name?” I asked.

He looked at me sideways, then back at the table. “Iren.”

I repeated it, softly. “Iren.” I watched the name settle in his head as I spoke it, watched him brace for something and then relax when it didn’t come.

“Men like that one,” I said, jerking my chin toward the bar, “don’t stop because they’re embarrassed once.”

He looked up. The green of his eyes was brighter in the stage lights, almost unnatural. “I know.”

I looked at him, really looked. Thin, but not underfed. Clothes chosen for effect, but the effect was unintentional. He wore himself the way a soldier wears a uniform: armor against the world, but never quite a fit. His hands were still trembling, barely.

I was about to ask him another question when Yuri appeared at the edge of the booth, silent as always. I leaned toward him, keeping my eyes on Iren. “Take care of it,” I said, quiet.

Yuri nodded once. That was enough. He vanished into the crowd, taking the direct route to the man slipping through the crowd, already half out the door. Yuri would not break a sweat on this one. Sometimes I felt bad that the world didn’t provide better challenges.

Iren watched the exchange with sharp, quick eyes. He missed nothing. I wondered what he made of it. I decided to ask later.

I picked up the glass of whiskey and rolled it in my palm. The boy watched, curious, waiting to see if I’d drink it.

I did not.

“Protection,” I said, “always costs something.”

He blinked, once.

I continued, “Think carefully before you ask for it. You might not like the price.”

I set the glass down, untouched.

He didn’t respond. Not yet. He was thinking about it. I could see the gears turning, the mental file being updated.

I let it sit.

I liked people who thought things through.

The club’s noise returned, filling the booth with the usual manufactured chaos, but in my corner, it was quiet. The boy sat beside me, back straight, still on alert. He was not done being afraid, but he was already calculating what came next.

So was I.

I left the boy in the booth with two of my men close enough to intervene, but far enough to avoid spooking him. I knew he would not run. Men like him did not run until they had a better place to go, and I had just removed his only present threat.

I walked the perimeter of the club. Nothing out of place. The crowd had already forgotten the incident, if they even saw it. On the stage, the next set was underway. A new boy, all cheekbones and self-infatuation, performed with twice the energy and none of the artistry. The regulars didn’t care. They just wanted something to fill the space.

The manager’s office was wedged behind the main bar, accessible only by a tight corridor that smelled of disinfectant and wet paper. I opened the door without knocking. The manager—Gregor—stood when I entered, then thought better of it and sat down again.

The room was a cell. Laminate desk, security monitors on one wall, filing cabinet with a motivational poster taped above it: TEAMWORK IS THE ENGINE OF SUCCESS.

I had never seen a more hollow sentence in my life.

“Gregor,” I said, so he would know I expected his undivided attention.

He fumbled his hands together. “Yes, sir?”