Chapter Six
Leon's POV
Waking up to Chris's call, he is over doing his manager thing. For fuck sake such an ungodly hour, calling at 5am. Only If I could teleport and blow his head with a gun, I just need to get this concert done and go for the world tour I'd been planning for a while now. I'm not a business man why the hell do I have to wake up at 5am? Fuck Chris! I hug the pillow and I drift back to my sleep. Dream of guns. Or maybe I don't. Hard to tell anymore.
Mauve at noon. Espresso and old money. Chris sits across from me, already nursing a whiskey. Leans back. That smirk.
"Where'd you go just now?"
"Tracking prey." I meet his eyes. "The invisible kind."
"Cryptic as ever."
"The faceless kind. I either give it a face, or I..." I stop. Gesture at my own. "Take the mask off."
"Jesus, Leon." He laughs, but it's tired. We've known each other since middle school. Been bound by contract since high school. He can read my silences. Better than my words. "The dangerous kind, then."
"Relax." I lift my wine glass. Dark cherry on my tongue. Warmth spreading. "I won't miss the show this time. Now—" I set it down. Harder than I mean to. "Why the fuck am I here?"
"Guess."
"Fuck guessing. Spill it."
"You're no fun." He sets down his glass. "My father called yesterday."
I pause. Richard Vane never calls without....
"He's handing me Mauve. Making it official soon." Chris's voice does that thing. Hope, but wrapped around steel. "You're first to know. Before the media. Before the board."
I watch him. "Last month he called you a 'useless investment.' In Vogue. "
The light in his eyes dims. He reaches for water. Drinks deep.
"I won't be his pawn anymore." Chris signals a waiter. TV switches to financial news. Male anchor, steady voice: Christian Vane, named successor to Mauve Hospitality Group.
I turn back. "Thought I was first?"
"Live broadcast. Thirty seconds ago." We toast. Glasses click. "I just nailed the tail to the horse," he says. "No going back now."
Phone vibrates. Father flashes. He declines it.
"Not taking that?"
He stares. Too long. Looks away. I don't press. He'll talk when he's ready. Or he won't.
"Your riddle," he says. "The prey."
I lean forward. "Let's test your new authority. Director's orders. That's all I need."
"Not CEO yet. Can't make—"
"Director is enough."
Young man approaches. "Where's the manager?"
"You're looking at him." Manager appears. Smoothing his jacket. Hasn't noticed Chris.
"How may I..."
Chris clears his throat.
"Oh." Face crumples. "Mr. Vane. I apologize, I didn't—"
Chris raises a hand. Dismissal.
I study the manager's name tag. Not him. Shake my head at Chris. Subtle.
"Call in all male staff," Chris orders.
They line up. Cadets. Eyes down. Even if I lifted their chins, studied their faces—I wouldn't know. I scan name tags instead. Marcus. James. David. Moving down.
Female server hurries in. Whispers to manager.
"Sir, I'm needed elsewhere."
Chris waves him off.
I reach the end. "Tristan. Which of you is Tristan?"
Two hands rise from the back.
Shit.
"Why two?"
"We have two Tristans, sir."
I press palm to forehead. "Step forward. Both of you."
They do. Same height. Different builds. Both wrong. Pressure behind my eyes. The blindness. Strangers, all of them. Always.
Manager returns. Breathless. "Mr. Vane. Situation. Woman claims she lost her purse yesterday. Here to retrieve."
"People lose purses daily," Chris says.
"What's special?"
"Pink. Portable. Photograph of her mother."
My glass freezes. Halfway to lips. The purse in my safe. The photograph I studied. Force my hand down. Say nothing. One word and he vanishes. The real Tristan. My connection to her.
"Who worked yesterday?" I ask instead. Let him step forward. Let him.
"Sir," one Tristan says, "I think I know that purse."
I set my glass down. There.
"Where is it?"
Looks at shoes. Sweat beading along hairline. "Someone else claimed it yesterday. I gave it to him."
Outrage ripples through room. I keep still. My lies exposed. Plans ruined. Should have moved faster. Should have—
She ruined this. Walked in. Dismantled my trap without knowing.
Fine. If I can't punish him, I'll punish her. And Tristan—this Tristan—will answer to Chris later. No one wastes my time. Unscathed.
"But," he continues, "I have the claimant's information."
"Who?" Chris demands.
Turns. Points.
I catch his wrist. Grip hard. Glare at Chris—dismiss them —and he does. Sharp clap. Staff scatter. Only manager and wrong Tristan remain.
"Lady," manager ventures. "She's waiting. Bring her in?"
"Do it," Chris says.
What are you doing? Reputation—entire constructed self—balanced on his whim. But Chris has managed my disasters for fifteen years. Won't let me fall now.
Manager exits.
"Tristan. Go."
Goes.
"What the hell?" Chris asks, low.
"Natural," I say. "When she enters, we know nothing."
He nods.
Manager returns. Alone. "She's gone, sir. Couldn't find her."
"Gone?" The word cracks.
Missed her. Again.
"Chris." Voice from somewhere distant.
"Need to see her face. CCTV. Now."
"You know I can't. Privacy laws—"
"Since when do you care about laws?" Tap the table. Counting seconds. "Get it done. Trust me—you won't regret this."
I know his secrets. Embezzlement at nineteen. Competitor sabotaged last spring. Don't partner with people whose shadows I haven't mapped.
He studies me. Feverish intensity. Then: "I'll consider it."
I smile. Bullseye.