Page 8 of The Last Dance

I didn’t sit. I planted both hands on the desk and leaned forward, not enough to intimidate, just enough to remind him of the food chain. “The dancers are assets,” I said. “You understand that?”

He nodded, quick, eyes on my hands.

“Assets require security. When one is cornered by a patron, in a hallway or anywhere else, you will handle it before it comes to me.”

He started to speak. I raised a finger. Silence.

“If it happens again, your employment arrangement will be reviewed. In terms you will not enjoy.”

He swallowed, nodded three more times, and began a string of apologies that I cut off with a look.

“That’s all.”

I left before he could finish nodding. I could hear the exhale of relief as I shut the door.

Yuri was already waiting outside, hands in the pockets of his charcoal suit. He did not report verbally; he just gave a half-shrug, which meant the problem had been removed from the building without incident.

I liked working with professionals.

“Background on the boy,” I said. “Full workup. Where he lives, where he came from, what he needs. Everything.”

Yuri did not question my interest. He never did. He just nodded and blended into the shadows, already pulling out his phone.

I lingered in the hallway for a moment, considering my next move. I didn’t need to explain myself to anyone. I didn’t need to justify why I wanted the boy’s file. It was not sexual. It was not even sentimental. It was a matter of principle. I had intervened once. The next time, there would not be a next time.

I would make sure of it.

Some information was not for lieutenants. Some things were not meant to be shared.

I thought about Iren, about the way his pulse had hammered against my chest, about the way he had not begged or pleaded or even tried to ingratiate himself. He had just wanted to be left alone. I admired that, but I also knew it was not in my nature to grant such requests.

I would protect him. Whether he asked for it or not.

That was the cost.

I watched the boy leave the club under the escort of two of my men. They did not crowd him. They kept a respectful distance, close enough to be useful, far enough to avoid triggering flight.

He did not look back, not once. That confirmed my assessment: not afraid, not anymore, just wary. He would have made an excellent small-time thief if life had dealt him better cards.

I waited five minutes, then took my own car. Yuri drove. He did not require directions. He knew where we were going.

We followed at a distance. I watched the taillights of the escort car blink in and out of view as they threaded through late-night traffic. The city after midnight was a different animal, slower and more honest. No one lied at this hour, not even the criminals. They were too tired for pretense.

The boy’s building was a six-story walk-up on a street that smelled of fryer grease and gasoline. The kind of street where no one asked your name, only how long you planned to stay. The entrance had a battered buzzer panel with more blank spaces than names. A single bulb above the doorway flickered and then died as we parked across the street.

I watched the boy—small, but not invisible—move up the steps and through the front door. He did not hesitate, did not look for shadows. Inside, the hallway light went on, then off again as he reached the stairs. The men I had sent waited until he was out of sight, then circled the block and returned to the car.

I kept watching the building. Third floor, window on the left. After two minutes, a light came on. I pictured him moving around the apartment: shoes off, lights low, maybe a drink, maybe just water. I tried to imagine what the inside looked like, but it was pointless.

I would see it for myself soon enough.

I made note of the entrance, the stairwell, the windows that faced the alley. There was a gap in the fence along the east side. The fire escape was half-rusted and looked like it had not been inspected since the last economic downturn. I ran the scenario in my mind: three points of exit, one point of vulnerability. I could have drawn it from memory if asked.

I thought about the boy.

Iren.

The weight of him when he landed on me. Not heavy, but solid, all bone and coiled muscle under the surface. The smell of sweat, cheap cologne, and the sharper note of soap from some other, better life. I thought about his eyes, green and bright even when he was scared.