Vihaan stared at his watch.

He could wait. He'd mastered the waiting game, in fact, having spent his formative years testing his patience. Watching others from the sidelines, dreaming that one day, he'd be invited onto the playing field. He hadn't realized, in fact, that he would never be invited. At his tender age, he'd still held out hope that one day, he could join the players.

Eventually, he got tired of waiting. The metaphorical bleachers grew cold, the sunshine turned to rain, and the grass turned to mud. The metaphorical players packed up and went home to their warm beds and hot meals and mothers who dried their tears and kissed their heads. Vihaan, meanwhile, walked back to an unforgiving orphanage, a cot with a scratchy blanket, and a growing hatred of soccer.

He grew to realize that the game was only that: a game. There was no point in watching and waiting or hoping and haunting. He would make his own game, with real stakes, more than brightly coloured pinnies or mocking jeers. Losses would have real sacrifice. Simply joining the game would demand a real cost from you.

And winning? Well, that would demand your soul.

So, in short, Vihaan Bakshi was very good at the waiting game. He knew that if you waited long enough, you would outlast every impatient sucker who failed the marshmallow test and wouldn't understand the meaning of delayed gratification if it hit them in the face.

But none of that meant that he liked it.

You could be good at waiting, he'd learned. You could get good at a lot of things. But you didn't have to like them. And as the seconds ticked by on his Patek Philippe, he realized that he definitely didn't like waiting.

Especially not for so-called friends. Lionel Russell was a good forty-five minutes late. As the flashbulbs began shining bright lights outside the dingy area of the pub, the typical noise of traffic and pedestrians escalating into the sound of what could certainly be deemed a ruckus, Vihaan realized why. His old Harvard friend was now a quasi-celebrity.

Someone to be questioned, harassed, shaken down for a drop of gossip or fame or something to sell on the pages of TMZ and Page Six. Or, in his case, the talking heads at the View and the pages of WaPo. Lionel Russell's scandal, after all, was not one of the caught-with-pants-down variety, but one of legalese, contracts, and money moving discreetly between powerful men's bank accounts. Still, it was a scandal all the same, and he knew that the public hungered for them.

They longed to see the Michelangelo, but the darker part of them thirsted still to see it knocked off its pedestal for being larger-than-life and more highly exalted than any of the rats scurrying below could ever hope to be.

"Lionel, old chap." He got out of his leather club chair, admiring the looks of the disgruntled patrons who cast condemning or curious glances toward Lionel as the man entered, shaking off his black rain-streaked umbrella, which was promptly taken by one of the staff. The concierge ushered Lionel Russell toward the club chair opposite from Vihaan's, taking his coat and offering him a cigar, a whiskey, a good slug of brandy--anything to shake off the chill, but more precisely the taint of scandal. "How have you been?"

No matter his impatience and frustration, Vihaan wouldn't let it show in his face. Not when he was far too busy to let loose his anger on just anybody. It was better kept bottled, to be released like poison on the proper targets at the proper times.

"Well, I've been better." Lionel ran a hand through his thinning brown hair. "The paps have been after me. I didn't realize D.C. had suddenly become Hollywood. I've been mobbed by so-called journalists for a solid two weeks now, all thanks to your little stunt."

Vihaan shrugged. He knew that Lionel would be upset with him for speaking about Cytex before Lionel himself had even made a statement, but it was better that way. "The sooner it got out there, the sooner it would die down. You know this is how the news cycle works."

"The election's pretty damn soon, Vihaan. Nothing's dying down. We'll be getting October surprises left, right, and centre."

"It's only July," he said, quietly amused by his friend's annoyance. "They'll have forgotten about it by the time that Pumpkin Spice latte season rolls around."

"You underestimate the public's memory," said Lionel. He ordered a bourbon and a Thompson cigar from the concierge, who had returned to stoke the now-roaring fireplace.

"You over-estimate the media's ability to memory-hole what seems like the worst disaster into nothing more than a blink-and-you'll-miss-it headline."

"The people can't forget everything, much like a long-suffering wife."

"And you have so much experience with those?"

"I could handle the excessive media attention, but it's gotten to my wife, which is why I came to Maryland. Tatiana's best friend is here--"

"Tatiana?" he repeated. He recalled now absentmindedly that Lionel Russell had married some gold-digging sorority girl from Penn State. Worse yet, he'd gone and fallen in love with her.

"Yes, her best friend, Layla or Leila something-or-other." Lionel forgave Vihaan's social faux pas, clearly consumed with thoughts of his wife. "We thought we'd fly up here to escape all the hubbub, but this media circus has only followed us to the East Coast."

"You live in Florida. That's the East Coast." Layla. Layla Lee.

"More like the South, really," Lionel said, in a faux Southern drawl. "You look... surprised."

"Surprised that you seem to follow the maxim of happy wife, happy life," he said to cover up his expression, diverting attention away from his over-emotional mistake. "Let's discuss this little... business matter, why don't we? Speaking of your media circus."

Lionel gave a laugh just as the concierge returned with his drink and a cigar, freshly cut, and lit it for him. "Thank you. And here, Vihaan, I thought this was just about friendship."

"I like to mix business with pleasure, Lionel. There aren't enough hours in the day otherwise."

"You're an impatient SOB," Lionel said, as though he'd read Vihaan's mind. "I was hoping you'd just wanted a nice little chat about how things have been."

"I've never really been a shoulder to cry on, now have I?" he said. "Were you late because of the mob of cameramen and cockroaches, or was there some other reason for your tardiness?"

"I was trying to figure out who could have leaked the Cytex lawsuit to you, the press." Lionel took a swig of bourbon. "Then, I realized."

Vihaan only knew the news himself through Amara, he was ashamed to realize. And she hadn't exactly divulged her sources, though now that he had his suspicions about Layla Lee and Tatiana Russell, he had a feeling she'd learned the news through her sister. "What did you learn?"

"That you have eyes and ears everywhere, but you like to talk most of all." Lionel's faraway expression sharpened into something nasty. He had to get control over this situation before the bourbon and cigars made the other man turn bitter, ready to sling spiteful invective at him over his own business problems.

"You know, I'm also a pretty good listener. I could listen all you want to a friend's problems."

"Only to sell them on the black market, right? How did you know, Bakshi? How in hell did you find out?" Lionel leaned forward in his seat, resting an elbow on one knee and wrinkling the fabric of his navy suit. A plume of smoke drifted toward Vihaan.

"I don't like your tone," he said flatly. "You want to talk, speak to me like a man, not a back-alley thug."

His Harvard friend choked on another laugh. "You're beginning to sound like the mother you never had."

That almost hurt. Vihaan had told few people about his orphaned status, but those whom he had told he hadn't trusted. No, the information hadn't slipped out inadvertently but had been doled out to make them trust him. At least it got him to change the subject. "An old friend told me. She learned through a friend of a friend."

"You're like a snake, you know that?" Lionel shook his head, but the fire in his brown eyes had dimmed. "You slither through every nook and cranny without ever getting caught."

"I'll take that as a compliment." He didn't drink, but took a sip of sparkling water. "Senator Underwood's re-election campaign is coming up."

"You're talking about politics now?"

"Everything is about politics in this town."

"What about Jake, then?" Lionel easily rubbed shoulders with the DC elite. Vihaan was the real back-alley thug, breaking metaphorical kneecaps and exchanging briefcases of cash. No one wanted him around except when the messy work had to be done.

"There's a lot of mud out there, ready to be slung," he said. "Now just ask yourself: who's ready to throw it?"

"Anyone willing to get their hands dirty." Lionel finished his bourbon, his brown eyes glassy. The man had never quite been able to hold his drink. "Damn it, Vihaan, you're my oldest friend. I'm desperate. This Cytex thing could take me down."

"I know," Vihaan said easily. That was why he'd leaked it in the first place. To put his so-called oldest friend in this position. It wasn't anything personal, really.

Vihaan just enjoyed leaving a trail of blood and ashes in his wake.

Lionel Russell uttered the four words that would seal his destruction: "I need your help."