Dim, yellowish light hung around the bar, the smell of alcohol wafting around the wooden building. Men and women clustered around circular tables, rising with lazy chatter or staring at the TV screens perched in the corners.

    Abe and Amy sat at the barside away from the main commotion, drinks in hand. The bartender came back to refill their glasses every so often, busying the rest of their time cleaning or making someone else a drink.

    Abe slouched in his chair and downed a shot of whiskey, the alcohol burning his throat, his belly. He knocked the glass against the table and sighed, fatigue drooping his lids.

    "I dunno..." said Abe, a faint slur in his voice. "This whole kidnapping has given me another chance to investigate Warfstache, but I feel like it's just made everything worse." He lifted a hand and pat the table. "I mean, I..." He closed his eyes. "I can't even wrap my own head around it all."

    Amy listened quietly, both of her elbows against the table. She ran a finger along the rim of her glass.

    "At least you've got the Director taking you seriously again," she mumbled. "Or, sort of." She shifted in her seat and rested her head against her arm, gazing at Abe. Now that she looked closely at him, she could see the hard lines and edges in his face; the fatigue that constantly shadowed over his features, even when he wasn't tired. The crease in his brow, the hunch of his shoulders, and that look in his eye bled with nothing but stress. Determination. A drive that would never be put to rest until it reached its goal: bringing Warfstache down to the ground.

    "Just," Amy shrugged, "put it in... the simplest terms possible." She waved a hand. "Once we know where Wilford is, that's it. We can arrest him and get that billionaire back."

    Abe scoffed under his breath. "If only it were that easy."

    "Yeah, I know," said Amy. She fell quiet a moment, eyes running along the details of the table as she lost herself in her thoughts. The gentle chatter and the hush of audio from the televisions filled the space between them.

    Amy squinted a moment, then glanced at Abe. "Do you remember how those two looked at each other?" she muttered, resting her head in her hand. "Edwards and Warfstache." She shook her head. "They were... I don't even know how to describe it."

    Abe ran a hand over his face and nodded. "I know..." he said. "That's why I feel so... helpless." He glanced at her. "What if we're wasting all this time trying to rescue Edwards?" He threw his hands about. "What if those two are already working together?"

    He shook his head. "I mean, do you know how much that would affect the case? We'd have nothing to put against them, even if we have Edwards' kidnapping as proof." He ran a hand over his mouth. "That's only going to work if Edwards is in danger."

    Amy took a deep breath and nodded, the possibility making her mind whirr. And then she thought about Mark. That look he gave her, when she visited him at the hospital; how he asked her if Dark was okay, if he was in danger. That look he gave to the photo of Dark only hours ago; how he admitted he had feelings for the man.

    Her heart sank for him.

    "Well," she said with a huff. "If that happens, we're just going to have to keep investigating." She glanced at Abe. "No matter what, Warfstache needs to be put behind bars."

    Abe smiled at that, and he tipped his glass up. "Cheers to that," he said.

    Amy raised her glass and clinked it against the detective's. "Cheers."

    She sat up as she downed a sip of her liquor, spinning around in her seat. Her eyes swept across the bar as she leaned back against the table, taking in her surroundings. As another pause fell between her and Abe, she squinted at the details of the bar, faintly recalling a story the detective had told her once they had gotten close a few years back.

    "Actually," said Amy, a smirk teasing her lips, "isn't this the same place where you and Warfstache banged?"

    Abe choked on his spit, and his face went red. He held up a hand and glared at her.

    "Don't—even go there," he spluttered.

    Amy laughed, and she shook her head. "Oh, come on, I'm the only one who knows," she said. "And—" She smirked. "Well, and then Warfstache and whoever else he told."

    Abe closed his eyes and huffed, hand tightening over his glass. He was so glad he had some alcohol in his system, otherwise he would have gone so flustered he couldn't even speak. "It was... a one time thing, an—accident, if anything," he said, face hot. "I-I didn't even enjoy it!"

    Amy rose a brow and grinned, elbowing his side. "The look on your face tells me otherwise, Detective," she teased. "You know, you've told me that story before, but you never went into detail." She leaned towards him with a smile, glad to see him with an expression other than exhaustion. As flustered as Abe was, Amy could tell he was grateful for something to joke about. Something to think about other than the case.

"Come on, playboy, fill me in," teased Amy, nudging the man's shoulder. "I want to hear about the days when you were younger."

Abe laughed at that, and he rose a brow at Amy. "You calling me old, Nelson?"

Amy smirked. "Just let me ask one question. Pleaseeee? And then you can go back to drinking and being sad."

"I'm not, sad."

"Just one question."

Abe sighed, and he rolled his eyes, unable to help but smile. He had to admit, Amy always had a talent for making him feel better when he was down. In her own, weird way. But he supposed anyone who bothered to interact with someone like him wasn't normal to begin with.

"Fine," he said, pushing his glass aside. He waved a hand towards himself. "Hit me."

Amy sent him a teasing smile and asked bluntly, "Who topped?"

Abe's face slowly grew red, and he blinked, flustered by the question. "I-I mean, well that's—" He rubbed the back of his neck. "It was kinda—more like—"

Amy laughed, and she waved her hands. "I'm just kidding!" she said. "You don't have to answer that, I was just messing with you."

"You just... caught me off guard, is all."

"Oh, so you were actually going to answer?"

Abe blushed, and he glanced aside. "I... topped. Or I was—on—top." He waved his hands as if he were swatting the memories away. "Warfstache can be very—persuasive."

Amy laughed, and she shook her head. "Wowww," she said softly. "I think I know what you're getting at." She rose a teasing brow. "Was he good at least?"

Abe grabbed his empty glass and held it up to his lips, eyes lost in the memories. His face flushed. "Uh, yeah," he said, voice small. "Just—just a little."

Amy giggled, and she shook her head with amusement. She pushed her drink forward. "I think it's time we start heading home," she said. "Want another round while we wait for a taxi?"

Abe brushed away his memories and chuckled. "Yeah, that... sounds good."

———

Sunlight glinted against Dark's rings as he lifted his phone to his ear.

He inhaled steadily and straightened himself in his seat, the rolling tones of the line thrumming in his ear. His eyes ran over Wilford and Host sitting in front of him, their elbows against the desk and eyes expecting, searching.

Last night, Wilford had looked at Dark like he was crazy when he accused Deja of poisoning him. But after a long silence and time to think about it, the possibility seemed likelier with every passing second.

Deja knew Dark rather personally. She knew his position in the market, she had control over which properties she could offer to him for sale... she knew his personality, his assets, and his connections.

The two had always been in friendly competition, but it wouldn't surprise Dark if she'd gone on the uglier side of business to get what she wanted. Even if that included drugging him and staging this whole mess.

Then there came Wilford's side of the matter.

Dark's eyes slid onto Wilford's figure, and they met eyes, tension curling between them.

Deja didn't have a personal relationship with Wilford, but she knew about him. She'd even let Host call her and willingly give out information on Dark; something the businessman had least expected.

Perhaps she didn't have anything against the mob boss. Maybe she was using his reputation to keep him subdued. Using him to keep Dark under reigns.

The line cut out, and the voicemail message played in Dark's ear. He sighed, and he lowered the phone, scrolling through his contacts again.

"She's not answering," he said. "I'll call her again."

Wilford nodded towards the desk. "Put it on speaker," he said.

Dark hesitated a moment, leveling the mafia boss in his gaze. A small act of defiance. He didn't like to take orders from anyone other than himself. Nonetheless, he complied, called Deja Dumont again, and set his phone on the desk. The ringing on the other line filled the study room, and the three of them sat there, waiting, hoping the woman would answer, hoping they'd get answers.

———

Celine's office door creaked open, and Wilma walked right up to her desk, heels clicking loudly. She stood there, jaw set, gazing down at Celine as she wrote something in a notebook.

    A long pause stretched out through the office, and after what felt like hours, Celine finally looked up at Wilma through her lashes, her eyes burning into her skin.

    "Yes?" she said quietly.

    Wilma inhaled steadily. "You said you'd have Wilford's location by yesterday night," she said. "I gave you my form of payment, didn't I?"

    Celine hummed, considering Wilma a moment. Scrutinizing her, mulling over a proper response. After another long moment, she waved towards a nearby chair.

    "Sit," she said.

Wilma narrowed her eyes and pulled up a chair, the desk a barrier as she sat across from Celine. Again, she waited for the woman to speak. She seemed very fond of silences, using them to her advantage. When she saw Wilma shift in her seat impatiently, the edges of her lips curled up in the slightest.

"I still want to know more," said Celine after a while, setting her pen and pad aside. She folded her hands on the desk and tilted her head at Wilma, studying her features. Wilma scoffed at the response.

"If I'd have given you money, you would've told me where he is already," she said sourly. "How much do I have to tell you until it's enough?"

"That's not the issue," said Celine. "I have people all over the city looking for your brother, Wilma. So believe me when I say that they've had no luck finding him so far."

Wilma scoffed at that. "How can you not spot him? He doesn't let anything stop him from going out and making a scene. Not even your articles."

Celine rose a brow at that. "I wouldn't be so sure about that," she said. "There hasn't been a single trace of him since the kidnapping."

Wilma made a face at that, like she was disgusted, or in disbelief. Her wavy hair bounced around her face as she shook her head. "Is that really true?" she said. "He kidnapped that man?"

Celine hummed, and she took another moment to pause, running a black nail along her desk. She picked up a pen and tilted it in her fingers.

"Yes," she lied, meeting Wilma's eyes. "That gives you all the more reason to kill him, doesn't it?" She tilted her head. "After all, I suspect a criminal like you draws the line when it comes to civilian's lives at expense."

Wilma frowned, and she glanced at the window, which was covered by black curtains. Only a few slivers of light escaped through the sides of the fabric.

She took a deep breath, and she sighed, turning back to Celine. Her chest tightened, sickness twisting in her stomach. The thought of her brother—wild as he was—taking an innocent person hostage... it nauseated her.

Wilma met Celine's eyes and swallowed.

"Do you know why he did it?" she breathed, voice held back. Celine stilled at her tone, almost surprised. "Do you know why Wilford would..." She closed her eyes, brows furrowed, and shakily sighed. "Why would he stoop so low?"

Celine ran her eyes over Wilma's figure, eyes searching. There was something about the emotion in her voice... heavy, burdened... and beneath that, she could hear the betrayal in her tone. Betrayed, not only because her brother had abandoned her, but because she thought he did something so sick that she would have never expected.

The satisfaction that Celine felt was short-lived, instead run over by a sudden stillness. In a way, she saw herself in Wilma; could feel her disappointment, her dismay. It reminded her of the time she found out her ex husband had been having an affair. Of the countless times he'd led her on, fed her a cover-up... and she believed him.

Why would he stoop so low?

Celine took a deep breath and exhaled. She figured she'd keep playing on with the story she'd crafted—make even his own sister believe that the mob boss genuinely kidnapped someone. After disappointment came anger, and Celine would count on the emotion to give Wilma the final push to pull the trigger.

"If it makes you feel any better," said Celine, her gaze cold, "he kidnapped that man for a reason." When Wilma's eyes flicked onto Celine's, searching, hopeful, she continued. "Dark Edwards is a very bad, bad man." Her eyes narrowed. "If anything, he deserves what Warfstache gives him."

Wilma stilled at that, her brows furrowing. "Dark Edwards... he's that billionaire, right?" She searched Celine's gaze. "Are you going to kill him?"

Celine smirked, and her eyes glinted.

Yes, absolutely, she wanted to say. It thrilled her to her very core—just the thought of hurting Dark and pressing her gun against his head. It was the reason she kept going, the reason energy thrummed under her skin. She was going to make him pay, and she would milk every last second of it.

"Well," said Celine instead, tipping her head. "I figure Warfstache will take care of that himself."

———

Ring... ring... ring...

    Just when the three thought the line was going to hang up again, it picked up, and the room went still. Wilford sucked in a breath, Host leaned forward, and Dark lingered a moment, considering what he would say.

    He met Wil's eyes, and the mafia boss nodded at him, sliding the phone closer to him.

    Dark scooted closer to the desk and exhaled.

    "Madam Dumont," he said, voice clear.

    There was a shocked inhale, the shudder of a breath... Instantly, wrong bled in Dark's chest, but he didn't know who to trust anymore. Right off the bat, something seemed off with Deja... but he couldn't place it.

    "Mr. Edwards," came Deja's voice—stiff yet full of relief. It was like she was holding her breath. "Is that really you?"

    "Yes, it's me," said Dark. "How are you doing?"

    Another tense silence. Something shuffled through the line, but it was too quiet to distinguish.

    "Mr. Edwards," Deja said steadily, voice drawn back. "Is there anyone else in the room with you right now?"

    Dark glanced up at Wilford, a chill racing down his spine when they made eye contact. He looked... serious. Hard-edged. A true mafia boss in his element.

    Dark glanced back at the phone.

    "No," he said.

    "I... I saw you get kidnapped, Mr. Edwards," breathed Deja. "One second, you were on the floor, the next, Wilford Warfstache was dragging you out of the venue." She scoffed through the line, like she couldn't believe she even had to explain this. "And then there was a shootout, I saw Mark run out and chase after him, and—"

    Dark's eyes flicked onto Wilford at that, and heat churned in the room.

    "—there were two FBI agents trying to calm everyone down, it was chaos."

    Dark narrowed his eyes at Wilford a moment, then hummed, turning back to the phone. "I don't remember any of that," he said.

    Another silence... a thunk on the phone, and the muffled sound of Deja's voice speaking to herself. Or was it someone else?

    Wilford began to note something wrong, and he leaned forward, brows knitted together. After a while, Deja spoke again.

    "Where are you?" she asked. "Did—Warfstache let you free, did he do anything to you?" She carefully exhaled. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

    "No, Madam Dumont, I'm fine," he said. "I'm... just laying low at the moment, it's nothing to worry about."

    "Thank god," huffed Dumont. "Have you gone to the police yet? Or the FBI?" She paused. "There's been articles everywhere about you, even the news sent out a Missing Persons report. If you go to them, they'll help you—"

    "I just need to ask you a few questions, Madam Dumont," said Dark. "Do you have time?"

    "Yes, of course," she said intently. "I'm... in my office right now, so I'll be unbothered."

    "Right," said Dark. "How good is your memory?"

    Deja paused at the question, her silence punctuating the line before she answered. "Pretty good, why?"

    Dark picked up the phone from the desk and stood up, starting to pace the study room. He kept it on speaker.

    "Do you remember Markus?" he said, heels clicking against the floor. "That... acquaintance of mine. You've met him a few times, even had a few drinks with him."

    Wilford's gaze burned into Dark's figure as he walked, and Host leaned back in his seat, watching. If Deja really was the one who set this all up, Dark had to word his questions carefully. As much as Wilford wanted to direct Dark's questions—make sure they didn't give anything away—he couldn't. Not with the call running.

Right now, he had to sit it out and let Dark work this out on his own. Maybe later he would give him a run down on how the mafia handled things like this; while it was exactly like the businessworld, the stakes weren't bankruptcy or a company closing down. It was life or death.

    "I do, actually," said Deja through the line. "I wouldn't say acquaintances, though, Mr. Edwards. He seemed like a close friend." She paused again. "Why are you... asking about him?"

    Dark shifted the phone in his hand and continued to pace, eyes running along the details of the study room. Wilford's and Host's gazes still burned into his skin.

    "Madam Dumont," said Dark, ignoring her question, "do you consider us close?"

    A pause filled the room.

    "Yes, of course."

    "If I... for example," said Dark, waving a hand, "offered you an option to take over my company..." He narrowed his eyes. "Could I trust you?"

    "Are you... thinking of stepping down?"

    "Can I trust you, Deja?" said Dark.

    A heavy silence came through the line, tense and coiled. It made dread roll like shivers down Dark's spine, and he clutched his phone, already knowing the answer. Of course he'd be betrayed. Of course the people he grew closest to stabbed his back.

    The trust he barely had in other people started to wither into nothingness.

    Dark sighed, and he closed his eyes, bowing his head. "Madam Dumont..." he said again, voice low. "Can I trust you?"

    Another silence, a heaviness on the line... at one point, Dark thought she'd hung up and left them all hanging there, waiting for a response.

    After a while, she answered, and when she did, her voice was soft. Broken.

    "Yes," she said quietly, and they both knew it was a lie. "Yes, Mr. Edwards, of course you can."

    Dark sucked in a breath, and he ran a hand over his face, emotion rising under his skin.

    "But can I trust you?" asked Deja softly.

    Dark walked back over to the desk and set the phone down, staring at it numbly. Wilford and Host stared.

    "What do you mean by that?" breathed Dark, resting his elbows on his knees and his head on his hands.

    A soft huff of amusement came through the line, soured by the silence.

    "Because I know you," said Deja, voice drawn back. "Because I know that sick bastard still has you hostage."

    Dark's brows furrowed, and he lifted his head. "What?"

    "I wish I could tell you everything, Mr. Edwards," said Deja. "I want to help you, I seriously do, but if I try they'll..." A pause fell over the line, something heavy and dreadful. "They'll know... She'll... know."

    Dark's brows furrowed. She?

    "How can I believe anything you're telling me?" he said.

    "Why would I lie to you, Mr. Edwards?" breathed Deja, voice firm. "Why would I ever go behind your back, if there wasn't someone on the outside pulling the strings?"

    A click came through the line, and her breath hitched, but she continued.

    "I am independent, Dark," said Deja, voice tight as if her teeth were bared. "I don't let other people tell me what to do—" She sucked in a breath. "—unless I'm forced to."

    Dark's brows furrowed. "What are you getting at?" he breathed.

    Another silence. Something mumbled on the line again, and this time, Dark could hear the shudder of Deja's breaths... and that feeling of wrong returned to him, not because he believed Deja was the one who poisoned him, but because maybe he was wrong.

    Maybe he was wrong, and in a way, Deja was in danger, too.

    "Dumont?" breathed Dark. "Dumont, are you there?"

    "Yes, I'm here," came Deja's voice, the tremors in her voice restrained. "Mr. Edwards, why don't we continue this chat in person?" She paused—Dark thought he heard her swallow. "Let's meet at that cafe you and Mark used to go to. Tonight, alright?"

    "You're talking about the—"

    "Yes, that one," said Deja, interrupting before he could say the actual name. "I'll see you there."

———

Deja hung up before Dark could say anything, and she set the phone on her desk, breaths shallow. Her heart raced in her chest, and a sweat broke on her brow. She couldn't believe she'd gone through with the call, couldn't believe she'd lied to her associate...

    She couldn't believe Dark called at the absolute worst time.

    Deja took a deep breath, and she carefully glanced up from her desk, meeting the barrel of a gun between her eyes. Her focus blurred, and she met eyes with that cold, distant man—the one who always hung around Celine's side like a shadow. A bad omen.

Blank stared at Deja cooly, his deadpan expression never once changing. It was his voice that held his emotion.

"That wasn't very smart," he said, and although his voice was quiet, it suffocated the entire room.

Deja swallowed. "I don't know what you're talking about," she breathed. "That's simply how us business people talk."

Blank held Deja at gunpoint a moment longer—held her gaze so steadily that it felt like eternity—and in a quick motion, he drew his weapon back and concealed it in his holster. Deja sucked in a breath and bent forward, relief flooding her system.

"You can't be trusted," said Blank, his voice soft. Dangerous. "Don't forget that Celine doesn't need you anymore." He turned his back on her and began to walk towards the exit. "If I killed you right now, it wouldn't make a difference."

"Wait—"

Deja stood up, and Blank stopped in place, his back facing her. She swallowed.

"Why... why'd you make me tell him to meet tonight?"

A silence fell over the room, and Blank tipped his head, his face still concealed from sight. Even though it was daytime, his presence sucked in all the darkness around him, casting him in nothing but a dreadful, nauseating feeling. Just a twitch of his fingers, and Deja worried he'd go for his gun again. And then the constant silence, the predatory stance... no one could ever know what went through a head like that.

"Like I said," Blank muttered, and he opened the door. "You can't be trusted."

He stepped out, and the door slammed shut, leaving Deja alone in her office.

...

Thank you so much for reading, and have a wonderful day!

Love, Vic xoxo