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Richard Arnold’s office is situated in Flower District, amongst the manicured parks and new, craning skyscrapers that host the wealthiest in Senna.

The Arnold family has been a long-standing beneficiary of The Snake for decades. Their businesses have been tied into our vast ecosystem for decades. Their banks, real estate and various investments stretch through the city but only through our approval.

When I walk into his office, a dainty assistant with mousy brown hair and a flat chest that makes her look more like a pre-pubescent boy than anything else shoots up from her seat.

“Mr. Vasilyev,” she says unsteadily. “How can I help?”

“Richard is expecting me,” I lie.

Her mouth opens into a small ‘o’ before she nods quickly, not willing to question me. “Right, sure, of course,” she says slowly. “Please, follow me.” She sets off down the brightly lit, carpeted hallway, scurrying like a mouse.

When she pushes the heavy glass door open, she clears her throat, moving aside to let me in. “Sir,” she says behind me. “Mr. Vasilyev is here to see you.”

The office is large, situated on the fortieth floor, and looks over an open square below. A mahogany desk sits in front of the floor to ceiling windows, and the rest of the office is all black leather and glass with a bar cart situated in the corner.

Richard Arnold Sr. looks up from his desk, his fingers pausing on his keyboard. He’s a stocky man in his late fifties with a greying beard and sharp, watchful eyes. For a moment, his expression flickers with surprise—and something akin to fear—but he quickly pastes on a welcoming smile.

“Rowan!” he says, his voice jovial, but I know he’s worried. It’s not every day you get a visit from a Vasilyev unless you’ve royally fucked up. “I wasn’t expecting you,” he continues. “What do I owe the pleasure?”

I smile, walking over to his desk and sitting down without his permission. His jaw ticks, grey-flecked beard twitching.

“I came to pass mine and The Snake’s condolences. I heard what happened to your son. It’s a shame.”

Richard’s face shifts, practiced grief tightening his face as he nods sombrely. “Yes, losing Richard has been … devastating.”

“I’m sure it has,” I reply, my tone just as sombre. “The Snake values your family. Naturally, we share in your loss.”

Richard nods, his shoulders sagging slightly in relief. “I appreciate that, Rowan. Truly.”

“But that’s not the only reason I’m here,” I continue, leaning forward slightly. “There’s something else I want to discuss.”

His eyes narrow, the tension creeping back into his frame. “Oh? What’s that?”

“Halle Ellsworth,” I say evenly.

“What about her?” Richard asks, distractedly flipping through a file.

“I need you to drop the case.”

He stops flipping the file, his hand pausing mid-air. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

His face hardens, the veins in his neck bulging. “You can’t be serious. That bitch killed my son. Knocked his head in and pushed him down the stairs!”

I raise a brow at his outburst, waiting until the silence stretches uncomfortably before replying. “Maybe she did,” I say calmly. “But that’s irrelevant. This case isn’t going anywhere.”

“You don’t understand—” he starts, but I cut him off with a quick hand.

“I understand perfectly,” I say. “I also understand that the Arnold family enjoys a profitable relationship with The Snake. Your bank thrives because of us. That building you’re sitting in right now is a result of our generosity. Everything you are is because of us.”

Richard’s mouth tightens, his jaw flexing as he glares at me. “You’re threatening me?” he growls.

I laugh softly, leaning back in my chair. “Not at all. I’m giving you a choice. A simple one, really. You can drop the case, or I can make your life very uncomfortable.”

He scoffs, but there’s a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “You think I care about a little discomfort? My son—”

“Your son,” I interrupt, “Was a violent drunk with a penchant for beating women. The world is better off without him—you’rebetter off without it, and you know it.”