Page 15 of The Satyr Next Door (Convergence Quickie #1)
Valerie
I’d never seen him scared.
In the twenty-five years since he’d pulled me off that street corner, I’d seen rage, trepidation, nerves, even submission to his bosses, but never fear.
"I'm in trouble, Valerie," he’d said the night before.
We’d been lovers, no, not lovers. I’d been his side piece, the woman who was convenient between wives and girlfriends.
I did his books, answered his emails and phones, I'd been his punching bag once or twice in the dark years, but overall Leo Frenatta had been good to an ex-teenage whore with no options. He’d protected me.
Never passed me around. For a criminal, Leo was… decent.
"What did you do?" I’d asked, blanket pulled up to my chin.
Normally, this was where he’d jab a finger at me and say, None of your fuckin’ business is what I did.
Instead, he studied his hands, like they could tell him a future he liked better. “I made a deal I can’t square,” he said. “Long time ago. It’s come due.”
He didn’t say more. Wouldn’t. That was Leo. You got the headline; you had to live through the rest.
The drive had been quiet except for the sound of Leo's breathing and the soft whisper of expensive tires on asphalt.
I kept my hands steady on the wheel, eyes on the road, thoughts locked down tight the way I'd learned to do when he got like this.
So many years of reading his moods had taught me when to speak and when silence was safer.
The Black Star Hotel rose like a monument to money that didn't breathe the same air as the rest of us.
Windows blazing. Brass doors under a portico so polished you could check your lipstick in them.
Cyrillic letters arched over the entrance, gilded and unfamiliar, but I read them anyway.
Черная Звезда. A shiver traced my scalp.
"Go check us in," Leo said. He hadn't moved. One hand white-knuckled the oh-shit handle, the other digging for a cigarette. He'd quit last spring, same time he'd started telling me I looked good in blue instead of just grabbing whatever was closest when he wanted me dressed for dinner.
"Us?"
"Reservation's in your name," he said. "Other party handled it." His jaw ticked once. "Be polite."
I'd been reading Leo's moods for twenty-five years, longer than either of his marriages. This wasn't nerves. This was a man who'd already picked his own grave site and was wondering if he'd look good in the casket.
The doormen wore fitted black like they were working a funeral, not a hotel.
Handsome in that anonymous way, good bones, clear skin, the kind of faces you forgot the moment you looked away.
Their eyes passed over me like cops cataloguing a witness, deciding what I knew and how much trouble that made me.
I kept my face neutral and my purse strap tight across my shoulder.
In this world, being memorable was dangerous, but being defenseless was worse.
Inside, the proportions felt wrong, like a beautiful woman with one leg slightly shorter than the other.
The ceiling pressed too low, the walls angled in ways that made my eyes want to slide away.
Black marble under my feet—practical if you wanted to hide bloodstains, treacherous if you were a woman in heels who couldn't afford to stumble.
The fountain in the center whispered instead of splashed. Water over dark stone, the sound like secrets being traded in the next room.
The air had that expensive smell hotels pumped in, vanilla and something floral I couldn't place.
But underneath it, something sharper. Metallic.
Like the taste you got in your mouth before you fainted, or the way Leo's hands smelled after he'd been in the basement too long with people who owed him money.
A chandelier hung overhead, crystals catching the light like the diamond earrings Leo had given me for my fortieth birthday, beautiful from a distance, sharp enough to cut you up close. It flickered once, twice, then steadied, as though something unseen had breathed across it.
The clerk behind the desk looked up with a smile I'd seen on loan sharks and prosecutors who'd already decided your client was guilty.
Perfect teeth, perfect suit, perfect everything, the kind of expensive maintenance that meant dangerous money.
Attractive in a cold way, like a knife with a pretty handle.
"You must be Valerie." Russian accent thick as molasses. His voice had the same quality as good whiskey, smooth going down, burn after.
I hadn't given my name, but I'd been Leo's girl long enough not to show surprise when people knew things they shouldn't.
Too many years of being introduced as "my associate" or "the lady who handles my paperwork" had taught me when to speak and when to smile and when to keep my mouth shut and let the men do their business.
"We have a reservation."
"Of course." He already had a brass key waiting on the marble counter, heavy as Leo's class ring, the one he'd worn through three decades of handshakes and throat-cutting. Engraved numbers: 707. Under that, letters in Russian script, flowing like a woman's signature.
When I picked up the key, it shocked me, not carpet static but something that traveled up my arm and settled behind my breastbone like heartburn. The key was warm, body-warm, as if someone else had just been holding it. For a breath, I swore it pulsed against my palm like a second heartbeat.
"Enjoy your stay," he said, the way funeral directors said sorry for your loss, professional sympathy that didn't reach the eyes.
Leo appeared beside me, the unlit cigarette still between his fingers.
He was studying the lobby like he was casing it, which meant he was scared enough to fall back on old habits.
When Leo got nervous, he started thinking like the small-time hood he'd been before he'd learned to wear expensive suits and keep his hands clean.
"Seven-oh-seven," I told him, showing the key. It caught the light, scattering little golden reflections across my palm.
We walked to the elevator together, my heels clicking against the floor in a rhythm that sounded too much like a countdown.
Our reflections followed us in the black lacquer walls, mine looked older, his looked smaller.
The lighting was the kind you found in expensive restaurants, flattering enough to hide the worst damage but honest enough to remind you that time always collected its debts.
The elevator opened without being called, doors sliding apart smooth as silk stockings. That happened sometimes in nice places, but usually it meant someone was watching the cameras. Or worse, someone was expecting us.
The interior was mirrored, not the funhouse kind that made you look thin, but the honest kind that showed you exactly what you were.
A middle-aged woman in a good coat and sensible shoes, standing next to a man who'd forgotten how to stand up straight.
Leo's reflection caught my eye in the glass, and I saw something I'd never seen before: defeat.
Not the temporary setback kind he'd weathered before, but the bone-deep knowledge that this time, there might not be a way out.
The doors closed too smoothly, like they'd been oiled that morning. I counted floors out of habit, numbers were my job, and Leo's freedom had depended on my accuracy more than once. But the floor indicator never changed, even though I felt us rising, my ears popping slightly with the altitude.
What kind of deal? I wanted to ask. Who did you promise what to? But Leo's jaw was set in that particular way that meant questions would earn me the back of his hand, and I'd learned long ago that curiosity was a luxury I couldn't afford.
The hallway outside 707 stretched longer than the building should've allowed, but architects did strange things when someone paid them enough to forget about fire codes.
The carpet looked thick enough to muffle screams, deep burgundy that would hide stains the way Leo's basement floor had been designed to hide evidence.
The door was black lacquer with gold numbers that matched the key, polished to a mirror shine.
I could see myself in it, hair still neat despite everything, lipstick still in place.
Leo had always said I was the kind of woman who looked put-together even in a crisis.
I still wasn't sure if that had been a compliment or a job requirement.
The lock turned with a click that sounded final, like the snap of handcuffs closing.