Page 18 of Shadow Waltz
LUKA
The afternoon sun painted Manhattan in shades of gold and shadow through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city sprawling beneath me like a circuit board made of light and opportunity. Twenty-seven monitors lined the far wall of my office, each one a window into territories I controlled, each data stream a thread in the web I'd spent years weaving with patience and violence.
But today, my attention wasn't on the usual surveillance feeds or financial reports. Today, I was expecting visitors who commanded respect even from someone in my position—Adrian Calloway and his husband Noah, flying in from London to discuss an arrangement that would expand both our empires while solidifying control over New York's most lucrative underground markets.
The Calloway name carried weight in international criminal circles, built on a foundation of strategic brutality and the kind of old-world honor that made certain types of business possible. Adrian had inherited his father's organization and transformedit from a regional operation into a global syndicate within seven years, earning the alias “The Beast” through his habit of collecting trophies from enemies who'd underestimated his capacity for creative violence.
We'd first met five years ago during a weapons summit in Amsterdam, two young kings trying to carve empires from the ruins of previous generations' failures. The partnership that followed had been mutually profitable, built on shared understanding that loyalty was the only currency worth trusting in a world where betrayal was the default setting.
“The Calloways' jet landed twenty minutes ago,” Carina reported. “Ground transport is en route, estimated arrival in fifteen minutes.”
I nodded, straightening my tie and checking my reflection in the darkened window. First impressions mattered in this business, even between allies. Weakness was blood in the water, and showing anything less than complete control could shift the balance of negotiations in ways that took years to correct.
“Security arrangements?” I asked, though I knew Carina would have anticipated every possible threat.
“Same protocols as before, but enhanced,” she replied, swiping through updated reports. “After the Sokolov situation, I've added perimeter sweeps every hour instead of every two, and Mason's expanded monitoring to include satellite feeds. The Calloways' reputation means we're dealing with a higher threat level than usual.”
The thoroughness was necessary not just for Adrian's protection, but for mine. The Calloway organization had enemies spanning three continents, and any attack on Adrian while he was under my roof would be interpreted as either betrayal or incompetence. Both options carried consequences that could destroy everything I'd built.
My phone chimed with a message from building security:
Security
Guests arriving. Two passengers plus driver.
I moved to the window overlooking the street, watching as an armored Mercedes pulled up to the discrete entrance that served my more sensitive visitors. The vehicle looked unremarkable from a distance, but I knew it was equipped with everything from bulletproof glass to chemical filtration systems—the kind of protection that cost more than most people's houses and still might not be enough to stop someone truly determined to cause harm.
“I'll meet them in the lobby and escort them up,” Carina said, gathering her tablet and moving toward the door. “Estimated arrival in the office in eight minutes.”
The passenger door opened, and Adrian Calloway stepped onto the sidewalk with the controlled grace of a predator surveying new territory. Even from thirty floors up, his presence was unmistakable—6'4” of carefully contained violence wrapped in a custom suit that probably cost more than a car. The extensive scarring that covered the right side of his face and neck was visible even at this distance, testament to the childhood fire that had forged him into something harder than steel.
Behind him came Noah, moving with the fluid efficiency of someone who'd learned to navigate dangerous situations through survival rather than choice. At 5'10” with lean features and an understated style that made him nearly invisible in crowds, Noah Hastings-Calloway was proof that the most dangerous weapons often came in deceptively harmless packages.
The contrast between them had always fascinated me—Adrian's scarred brutality paired with Noah's delicate beauty, power and compassion intertwined in ways that should havebeen impossible but somehow worked perfectly. Watching them move together, anticipating each other's needs with the synchronization of people who'd learned to trust completely, stirred something in my chest that I'd spent years trying to suppress.
Envy, maybe. Or recognition of something I'd convinced myself I didn't want.
Five minutes later, the private elevator opened to admit my guests into the sanctuary I'd built at the top of my tower. Adrian entered first, his heterochromatic eyes—one ice blue, the other deep amber—scanning the room with the systematic attention of someone who'd survived countless assassination attempts through vigilance and paranoia.
“Luka,” he said, his voice carrying the slight rasp that came from smoke damage sustained in the same fire that had left its marks on his skin. “Your city looks good from up here. Peaceful.”
“Peaceful is profitable,” I replied, extending a hand that he clasped with the kind of grip that could crush bones if the mood struck him. “Adrian. Good to see you.”
Noah followed a step behind, hazel eyes that shifted from green to gold as they adjusted to the office lighting. His movements carried the controlled efficiency of someone who'd spent years working in trauma medicine, hands that could save lives or end them. The small crescent scar beneath his left eye was barely visible unless you knew where to look, but I'd learned to catalog such details in a business where scars often told more accurate stories than words.
“Noah,” I said, offering him the same courtesy I'd shown his husband. “How was the flight?”
“Long,” Noah replied with a smile that transformed his entire face, making him look even younger than his twenty-seven years. “But worth it for the view. Your city has a different energy than London.”
The way he said “your city” carried subtle acknowledgment of territorial boundaries and spheres of influence, the kind of diplomatic phrasing that prevented misunderstandings between organizations that settled disputes with extreme prejudice. Noah might work as a trauma nurse in civilian life, but he understood the world his husband inhabited well enough to navigate its complexities without causing international incidents.
“Drink?” I offered, moving toward the crystal decanters that held liquor worth more than most people's annual salaries.
“Whiskey, neat,” Adrian said, settling into one of the leather chairs positioned to offer commanding views of both the city and the room's entrances. His scarred hands rested on the armrests with deceptive casualness, but I caught the way his eyes tracked movement and catalogued potential threats even in the safety of my office.
“Water for me,” Noah added, taking the chair beside his husband with movements that brought them close enough to touch without appearing clingy or dependent. “I'm still adjusting to the time change.”
I poured the drinks, using the familiar ritual to study my guests without appearing to stare. Adrian's custom suit couldn't quite hide the bulk of body armor or the subtle bulges that suggested enough weaponry to start a small war, but his posture remained relaxed despite the precautions. Noah wore earth tones that made him nearly invisible against the office's neutral palette, a calculated choice that suggested he'd learned to disappear when circumstances required it.