Page 7 of Man of Lies (Vendetta Kings #2)

Chapter Seven

SILAS

Devil's Garden at night looked like a knockoff noir set, all shadowed corners, flickering street lamps, and thick, shimmering humidity. But it was more the result of poor city planning than any deliberate attempt at charm. Cracked sidewalks, busted pavement, and a city too broke—or too corrupt—to give a damn.

Downtown put on a quaint little show during the day, with its brick facades, cobblestone charm, and that old art house theater with the broken marquee. But after dark? The place exhaled a different atmosphere. The air was slick with fry oil from nearby food trucks and something sickly-sweet drifting from an open window overhead. Jasmine, maybe. Or cheap perfume.

I stuffed my hands in the pockets of my riding jacket and squinted at the string of neon signs bleeding color onto the street. 'Cold Beer' in one window. 'Live Jazz' in another. The club hunched between a pawn shop and a dilapidated convenience store, ivy crawling up the bricks like it was trying to escape the place. If it had a name, I'd never heard it. The brick was crumbling, the awning sagged, and music leaked between gaps in the front door. A saxophone wailed, low and aching, from somewhere inside.

Precisely the kind of place Sylvia liked to haunt.

"You look like hell," she called from one of the wrought-iron patio tables, waving a half-empty martini glass like she was directing traffic.

I wasn't exactly dressed to impress. Clean jeans, black T-shirt, and hair still damp from a post-garage shower were good enough. No matter how hard I scrubbed, the faint scent of grease clung to my skin. But this was Devil's Garden. People asked questions if I showed up in anything fancier than boots and a pulse.

"Yeah? You look gorgeous enough for both of us," I drawled, kissing the layer of makeup on her cheek before pulling out the chair across from her. The legs screeched against the concrete, earning us a few annoyed glances. Sylvia didn't notice or care.

She'd picked the most private table on the patio, tucked behind a dying potted plant and a water feature that sounded like it had a bladder issue. She probably figured the splashing would cover her loose mouth, but it would have me hitting the john before long.

She leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm, red nails drumming against her cheek. "That shirt's working overtime, sugar."

I let the comment slide, settling into the chair with a lazy slouch. "Is this a social call, or are you planning to be useful?"

"Don't be mean," she purred. "You love it when I get mouthy."

I loved that she liked to talk. Especially when she thought I was listening for the wrong reasons.

She sat as if people were watching. Chin up, ankles crossed, fingers wrapped around the delicate stem of her martini glass.

The whole scene felt staged for effect. Strings of patio lights stretched between the buildings, casting Sylvia in a warm, almost holy glow. If saints came in the loud, pint-sized variety—tight skirt, knockoff pearls, and perfume I'd smelled from the parking lot. Her dark curls were so stiff with spray, they didn't even wobble when she sneezed.

"Allergies?" I asked.

"I hate jasmine," she muttered, crinkling her nose. "Gives me a headache. You're not worth this level of discomfort, Silas."

"Sweetheart," I drawled, giving her a slow grin. "I'm worth a hell of a lot more."

She gave a snort, just flirty enough to pass for cute, and fanned herself like she was wilting in the heat. All for show. I let the corner of my mouth twitch. She liked to pretend this was a date, and I let her. The performance made her feel in control, and that made her chatty and careless. If she thought my attention meant something...that was her problem, not mine. Letting her believe I cared cost me nothing.

A passing waiter in suspenders gave me a nod, and I ordered a stout without looking at the menu. Sylvia was already talking again, filling the space with gossip, complaints, and backhanded flattery while I smiled and egged her on.

"How's the new place?" I asked, settling back in my chair like this was just another night and not a slow walk through a minefield.

She made a face, all dramatic eye-roll and delicate disgust, then flicked at some invisible lint on her skirt like it had personally offended her. "Didn't last," she said, pursing her glossy lips. "Roommates wanted more benefits than rent could cover."

I didn't ask what kind. Everyone knew Sylvia wasn't shy about spreading her affection, so long as there was something in it for her. Apparently, a two-bedroom condo split four ways didn't rate.

My eyes narrowed. "So you're back with Gator."

She didn't answer immediately, buying time with a slow sip from her drink. Her lipstick left a perfect crescent on the rim. "Didn't say that," she murmured.

"You didn't have to."

She watched me over the rim of her glass, her gaze sharp beneath the flutter of false lashes. She liked to play dumb, almost reveling in how people underestimated her. But she knew better with me.

"You always were good at reading between the lines," she said. "Must be why Gator doesn't trust you."

I flashed my teeth in a grin that felt too wolfish around the edges. "He trusts you?"

That earned a genuine laugh, but it was dry and humorless, the only kind her unhappy soul knew how to make. "Sweetheart, Gator doesn't trust anyone. But he likes the way I look when I lie."

I didn't doubt it. Sylvia was built for deception—soft curves, big eyes, and just enough charm for a man to forget she had teeth. Even I caught myself thinking of her fondly now and then.

"And how do you look when you tell the truth?" I asked, just to see how she'd answer.

She leaned forward, resting one elbow on the table, her voice dropping to something silkier. "I guess we'll find out."

I let that sit for a beat, then tilted my glass toward her. "So, do I need to buy you a second round before you're in a sharing mood?"

Sylvia traced a lazy circle on the rim of her glass, eyes following the motion like she was somewhere else in her mind. Her rings clinked against the crystal, loud in the hush of conversation filling the patio.

"Gator's in one of his moods," she said finally, and my ears perked up at the peevish edge creeping into her tone. "Snapped at one of the runners last night for looking at him too long. Poor kid couldn't've been more than sixteen. I thought he was gonna piss himself."

She took a hefty sip of her martini, setting the glass down with too much care—like she wanted to break it, but not yet. "He gets like that sometimes. Meaner than a two-headed snake. Ever since we got back together, he's been treating me like furniture. Sit pretty, stay quiet, don't get in the way. In my own damn house."

I didn't say a word. Just sipped the foam off the top of my stout and waited. Sylvia didn't do well with silence—it made her nervous.

She glanced at me beneath her lashes, then dropped her gaze like she was reconsidering. "I shouldn't be saying any of this."

"You haven't said anything yet."

She tipped her head back and cracked out a bitter laugh that was too shrill and went on just a little too long. When she'd finished, all the mirth was gone from her face. "He started keeping two phones again," she said softly, wiping a fingernail at the corner of one eye. "You know what that means."

"It means he's nervous," I said, carefully. "Nervous men make mistakes."

She gave me a sidelong glance. "So do the people standing too close when the hammer drops."

"Sounds like you're looking for an exit," I said, tilting my glass in a mock salute.

She didn't deny it.

Instead, she leaned back and exhaled through her nose, like something was pressing in on her ribcage. "Word is there's a task force out of Baton Rouge sniffing around. State-level. Nobody knows who sent them or what they're after, but Gator's spooked. Real spooked. Bury-your-burner kind of spooked."

I nodded slowly and let my gaze drift across the patio, casually clocking the couples at nearby tables like I wasn't listening too hard. Eagerness didn't play well with this crowd.

"They digging into his operation?" I asked, watching as an old woman in a floral sundress slipped scraps to a dachshund under her chair.

"Depends who you ask." She stirred her drink with a chipped pinkie nail. "Some say it's about the drugs. Others think it's the girls."

I kept my face blank. The girls. That landed like a stone in my gut.

Sylvia went on, either oblivious or pretending to be. "He's been cleaning house. Asking questions. You know Gator—he's not exactly the jump-at-shadows type. For him to get scared?" She shook her head. "It must be bad."

I leaned back, thumb drifting along the rim of my glass, and studied her closely. "That's why Gator's been keeping his distance from the bar?"

"He doesn't want to be seen anywhere too visible, especially with rumors flying." Her hand disappeared into that tiny purse she always carried, some gaudy little thing with rhinestones and a broken clasp, and came up with nothing but receipts and irritation.

I pulled the soft pack from my jacket pocket and tapped a cigarette loose, holding it out between two fingers before she could go diving again.

She hesitated before taking it with fingers that trembled just a little.

"Then you can remind him the Dead End's always been good to him," I said evenly. "I make sure of that. No cops and no questions. Just business."

The string of patio lights buzzed faintly, spotlighting us like actors mid-scene, talking pretty while the real damage happened behind the curtain.

She blew a slow stream through pursed lips, eyes narrowing as the smoke curled between us. "You really think that makes you look loyal?"

"It makes me useful." I didn't push. Didn't need to. She was a natural gossip—staying useful was how she survived. The message would get where it needed to go. "And you can tell him that too."

She opened her mouth, but whatever she was about to say got swallowed by the sound of the club door creaking open. A burst of laughter spilled out with the music, loud and jarring in the hush of the patio.

I barely looked up at first. Just another pair of drunks weaving into the street—a woman in heels too high, her date clinging to her like they were on the deck of a sinking ship. A younger girl followed, clutching a sequined purse and texting with one thumb, eyes glued to the screen.

And then— him.

Mason stepped into the spill of lamplight, hair tousled and unstyled, the collar of his shirt open in a way he'd never been around me. Careless. Effortless. Like he belonged here.

But that tug I felt drawing us together was one-sided.

Because he wasn't alone.

The man at his side was blond, broad-shouldered, and built like a war monument. His face was the type I'd expect to find stamped on a Roman coin. Where Mason carried his power like a package of tightly compressed dynamite, this one moved like a caged lion: power in every step but never quite relaxed.

Their heads were bent close as they stood near the entrance, voices low and intimate, finishing whatever conversation had started inside. Even from across the patio, I caught the moment the man's fingers subtly grazed Mason's arm, like it wasn't the first time he'd touched him that way. Like it wouldn't be the last. It wasn't flirtation. It was a claim.

Something about them worked—too well. They looked like they belonged together: dark and golden, polished and powerful, like they'd been made to match under perfect lighting in some magazine spread meant to sell a lie about love.

My stomach turned.

It shouldn't have mattered. That's what I told myself. Over and over. But it did—and the lie tasted bitter on my tongue. Jealousy twisted through me, and I had to plant my hands on the arms of the chair to keep from lurching to my feet.

What the hell was I doing?

Sylvia clocked the shift instantly. "Friends of yours?" she asked dryly, following my gaze.

"Something like that," I muttered, clenching my jaw so tight I thought I'd crack a tooth. The urge to cross the patio and rip them apart beat like a drum in veins.

But what would I even say? He wasn't mine. Never was, and never would be.

He hadn't fallen for me. He'd fallen for the story.

She took a long drag from her cigarette and asked, "Which one?"

Even if I'd planned to answer, I didn't get the chance.

Because just then, Mason looked up.

Like he could feel it—feel me —his gaze cut across the patio and locked on mine, and for a moment, the street noise vanished. No music, no conversation. Just the ringing in my ears and the unblinking weight of those blue eyes. He wasn't smiling, but his lips parted like he'd forgotten how to breathe, and something in his expression pulled tight. But he didn't look away.

Neither did I.

Sylvia exhaled beside me, the stream of cigarette smoke loud in the stillness.

"Never mind," she said, wearing a smile that didn't touch her eyes. "I figured it out."

Mason still hadn't moved—but Blondie did.

His gaze followed the invisible thread stretching between us, and one corner of his mouth lifted, just enough to set off the alarm bells ringing at the base of my spine. Then he stepped off the curb and started toward us, casual as sin, like he was certain he'd be welcomed when he arrived.

I was on my feet without thinking, but it wasn't a challenge. It was instinct; the kind I'd developed after years of learning to stay one step ahead of a blow before it lands.

That's when Mason stepped between us.