Page 16 of Madness & Mercy

The second course arrives. Grilled lamb, rare. Charred and bleeding slightly on fine China. Julian eyes it like it might bite back.

“You don’t have to act impressed,” I say, sipping my wine. “But you could at least try not to look like you’ve never seen a plate without grease stains.”

“Guess I’m not used to five-star interrogations.”

I lean forward slightly. “AndI’mnot used to being tailed by ghosts with fake names.”

He looks at me, calm, but I can see the tension coiling behind his eyes.

“I already told you who I am.”

“No,” I say, keeping my voice low. “You told me what you want me to believe. There’s a difference.”

He lifts his wineglass but doesn’t drink. “So, this is how it’s going to be? You wine and dine me while waiting for me to slip up?”

“I don’t wait for people to slip up,” I reply sharply.“I make them.”

He nods slowly. “Then I’ll make this easy for you. I’m not the hitman.”

“And I’m not God, but I still decide who gets buried.”

We stare at each other over untouched food. No more posturing. No more pretending this is anything but what it is.

I press the knife into the lamb, cutting through with practiced ease.

“If you’re lying to me,” I murmur, “this will be your last meal.”

He picks up his fork and finally takes a bite.

“Guess I’d better enjoy this one, then.”

I watch him chew, unhurried. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t fold.

But I see it.

He’s not as indifferent as he wants me to believe.

The food. The wine. The house. The luxury. The attention.

He’s not used to it. And even if he won’t admit it, helikesit.

At least a little.

And that’s leverage.

He’s good, I’ll give him that. He doesn’t rattle easy. Sits across from me like this is just another client meeting. Like we didn’t meet under surveillance photos and threat-level tension.

But there are cracks forming. And I know just how to spot them.

He goes for the olives next. Safe. Small. Something you can pop into your mouth while avoiding direct eye contact.

“You ever do contract work for anyone else in this city?” I ask casually. “Before the hit?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He chews slowly. Swallows even slower.

“I’ve worked for all kinds of people,” he finally says. “Divorces. Missing persons. A few high-profile cheaters who paid well to stay anonymous.”

“Funny,” I say. “I don’t remember you filing for a P.I license here.”