Page 16 of Shadow Waltz
“Clean this up,” I told Dmitri, handing him the bolt cutters. “Make sure the body is found somewhere public, somewhere the other bottom-feeders will see it. And Dmitri?” He looked up from the tools he was collecting, meeting my eyes with the steady gaze of someone who'd watched me do terrible things and never flinched. “Make sure they know this was a kindness compared to what happens to people who really disappoint me.”
I left the warehouse through the back exit, stepping into an alley that smelled like piss and broken dreams. The city spread out before me like a circuit board made of lights and opportunities, every street a pathway I controlled, every shadow a kingdom I ruled through fear and respect in equal measure.
My car was waiting at the curb—a black Mercedes that looked innocuous enough to avoid attention while being armored enough to stop anything short of an RPG. The driver held the door open without making eye contact, a habit I'd trained into him over years of service. In my world, seeing too much was often a terminal condition.
The drive back to the theater took twenty minutes through traffic that parted like water before my approach. Police cruisers that might have pulled over other vehicles gave my Mercedes a wide berth, their occupants smart enough to recognize the plates and what they represented. I owned half the NYPD through bribes or blackmail, and the other half knew better than to interfere with operations they couldn't stop.
Power was a living thing that required constant feeding, and tonight's lesson with Vincent was just the latest meal in a dietthat had sustained my empire for over a decade. Every act of violence was an investment in future compliance, every public execution a dividend paid in fear that kept my enemies in line and my friends loyal.
The theater rose before us like a monument to legitimate culture built on a foundation of human misery. From the outside, it looked exactly like what it claimed to be—a restored venue for classical performances and charity galas, the kind of place where rich people went to feel cultured while discussing stock portfolios and vacation homes.
But beneath the marble facades and crystal chandeliers lay something much more profitable than opera. The Shadow Auction had been running for years, a monthly gathering where New York's elite came to buy companionship that couldn't be found through traditional channels. Politicians, CEOs, foreign dignitaries—all united by appetites that required discretion and resources that made those appetites affordable.
I'd built the operation from nothing, starting with small-time trafficking that barely broke even and evolving it into something that generated more revenue than most successful companies. The secret was understanding that rich perverts were just like any other customers—they wanted quality merchandise, professional service, and the confidence that their transactions would remain private.
The elevator to my office was a study in understated luxury, mahogany panels and brass fixtures that suggested wealth without ostentation. The ride to the top floor gave me time to transition from Vincent's execution to tonight's auction, from hands-on violence to the kind of strategic thinking that kept my empire profitable.
Carina was waiting in my office when the doors opened, her prosthetic leg clicking against the marble floor in the rhythm I'd come to associate with efficiency and competence. She carried atablet loaded with reports that would determine whether tonight proceeded smoothly or whether we'd be making more examples before sunrise.
“Vincent Caruso has been handled,” I said before she could speak, moving to the wall of monitors that showed feeds from around the city. “His operation is being absorbed into ours, and his territory is now officially under our protection.”
“Efficiently done,” Carina replied, though I could hear the question she wasn't asking. Violence was a tool, but it was an expensive one that attracted attention from people I'd rather avoid. Every body that turned up with my signature on it was evidence that could eventually be used against me.
“The message needed to be clear,” I said, watching police cars navigate streets that belonged to me in everything but name. “Small-time operators have been getting bold lately, thinking they can carve out pieces of our territory while we're focused on bigger things. Vincent's death will remind them why that kind of thinking is hazardous to their health.”
Carina nodded and consulted her tablet, scrolling through the evening's agenda. “Speaking of tonight's operations, we have confirmation on all major buyers. The usual suspects, plus a few new faces with impressive credit ratings.”
That was good news. New buyers meant expanding markets, and expanding markets meant exponential growth in an industry where standing still was the same as moving backward. The key was vetting them carefully—making sure they had the resources to pay and the discretion to keep their mouths shut.
“Any security concerns?” I asked, though I was confident the answer would be negative. My people were professionals who understood that failure wasn't just a career setback but often a terminal condition.
“Mason's been running diagnostics since noon,” Carina reported. “All systems green, no unusual surveillance activity,no indications that law enforcement is planning any surprises. Detective Reddick's been quiet for three weeks, which either means he's given up or he's planning something we haven't anticipated.”
Reddick was the kind of cop who made the job personal, who'd rather die than let a case go unsolved. He'd been sniffing around my operations for years without finding anything solid enough to justify an arrest warrant. The fact that he'd gone quiet was either very good news or very bad news, and experience had taught me to prepare for the latter.
“Double security at all entry points,” I said. “If Reddick's planning something, tonight would be the perfect time to try it. Full house, high-profile buyers, enough evidence to build a federal case if he could get his hands on it.”
“Already implemented,” Carina said, which didn't surprise me. She had a talent for anticipating my needs before I voiced them, for thinking three steps ahead of every threat we faced. “Additional teams at every approach, counter-surveillance protocols in effect, extraction plans ready if things go sideways.”
The monitors showed normal activity throughout the city—money flowing through digital channels, rival gangs staying in their assigned territories, police patrols following routes that kept them away from my operations. Everything looked stable on the surface, but I'd learned to trust paranoia over appearances in a business where trust was usually fatal.
“Show me tonight's inventory,” I said, deciding to focus on what we could control rather than variables we couldn't predict.
Carina swiped through files on her tablet, displaying faces and numbers, trauma and pricing, human beings reduced to data points in the equation that kept my empire profitable. Most of them blurred together after years of this business—damaged goods with marketable qualities, the kind of merchandise that commanded decent prices without requiring special handling.
But one file made me pause, something about the image catching my attention in a way that surprised me. The photograph showed a young man with blonde hair and ice-blue eyes that seemed to look right through the camera, sharp features that spoke of both beauty and the kind of danger that came from surviving things that should have killed him.
It was his expression that held me, though. Not the broken desperation I'd come to expect from merchandise, but something fiercer. Defiance, maybe. Or the kind of rage that had been forged in fires hot enough to melt steel and reshape whatever it didn't destroy.
“This one,” I said, tapping the screen. “Tell me about him.”
Carina's eyebrows raised slightly—it was unlike me to show interest in individual lots beyond their market value. Personal interest led to poor business decisions, and poor business decisions led to shallow graves in my experience.
“Lot 17,” she read from the file. “Ashford Carter, twenty-five. This is his fourth time through the system, which makes him something of a collector's item.”
Fourth time. That was more than unusual—it was practically unprecedented. Most merchandise didn't survive one owner, let alone three. The fact that Carter was back in circulation suggested either extraordinary resilience or the kind of dangerous intelligence that made him worth keeping alive.
“Previous owners?” I asked, though something told me the answer would be interesting.