The Morzencos preferred her dead to seeing her under Vossen protection. Good. It stripped away whatever hesitation remained about severing those ties for Pavka. She packed little. A few silk shifts, a worn leather-bound journal, a small, wickedly sharp stiletto she’d kept hidden for years. The Vossen Estate sat hooked into the coastal cliffs like an iron spur, but any fortress had blind corners. She needed to know the bars, the locks, the blind spots. Sleep, tonight, was an indulgence she couldn't afford. The manor was a labyrinth of hushed opulence. Corridors lined with woven naval scenes and dark stone floors reflected the distant harbor lights in an oppressive quiet. Vessia moved like a shadow, her silk slippers making no sound on the intricate rugs. She bypassed the guard stationed outside her suite—a sentry whose blank stare stayed fixed on the opposite wall—slipping through a service door she'd noted earlier. Her instincts, honed by years of navigating the Morzenco underbelly, were her compass. The air grew cooler, carrying the scent of salt and damp stone as she descended a winding staircase. The muted sounds of men’s voices, low and guttural, reached her. Curiosity tightened her pace. She pushed open a heavy, unadorned door, revealing a large, stone-walled parlor, less refined than the upper floors, but radiating an undeniable warmth from a roaring hearth. Around a scarred oak table, men sat hunched over cards under lantern light. Empty glasses and half-eaten plates were scattered among a king’s ransom of chips. And at the head of the table, his formidable bulk filling the high-backed chair, was Ilmar. Kavrik’s lead enforcer. A man whose reputation was carved from the screams of his enemies and the loyalty of his men. His face was a roadmap of past conflicts – a jagged scar bisected his left eyebrow, pulling the skin taut, and another puckered near his jawline. His pale grey eyes stayed fixed on the cards fanned across his knuckles. He hadn't noticed her yet. None of them had. Then, she stepped fully into the room, letting the heavy door click shut behind her. The clatter of chips stopped. Every head snapped up. The men, a collection of hulking figures with weapons visible beneath their tailored jackets, froze. Their eyes, hard and assessing, locked onto her. Ilmar’s gaze, when it found her, was flat, devoid of surprise, but held a dangerous, simmering intensity. He knew, with a single glance, that she was not where she was supposed to be. “Evening, gentlemen,” Vessia said, her voice even, betraying none of the adrenaline now coursing through her veins. She walked towards the table, her steps deliberate, meeting their stares without flinching. “Is there an empty seat?” A low rasp came from a burly gunman at the far corner, his knuckles drifting toward his holster. “This isn’t a parlor, lady. You should be upstairs.” Ilmar raised a hand, cutting the man off. His pale eyes never left Vessia. “The bride of our boss,” he stated, his voice a gravelly rasp. “A Morzenco, no less. To what do we owe the honor of your nocturnal visit?” “The honor is mine, if you’d deal me in,” Vessia countered, stopping directly across from him. Her gaze flickered to the stacks of chips, the glint of gold and silver. “I find sleep overrated. And my luck, tonight, feels particularly keen.” Ilmar merely regarded her, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. He didn’t dismiss her, didn't threaten. He simply studied her, as if trying to decipher a complex cipher. Then, a slow, grudging smile, more a baring of teeth than genuine mirth, stretched his scarred lips. “Bold. Reckless. You have the scent of your uncle on you.” “And the ring of your boss on my finger,” Vessia retorted, lifting her hand slightly to display the heavy diamond. “So, are we playing, or are you all just going to stare?” The air in the room thrummed with a new tension, a blend of surprise and reluctant respect. Ilmar chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. “Alright, Morzenco. Pull up a chair. But don’t expect any charity. We play for keeps.” She took the empty seat, a small, wooden stool, at Ilmar's left. The cards felt smooth and heavy in her hands as he dealt. The game was a brutal variant of Ghastly, a local favorite that demanded steady hands and a quick eye for tells. Vessia played with a quiet intensity, observing the subtle shifts in the men’s posture, the minute changes in their breathing. She lost a few hands, then won a small pot, her expression unreadable. “Anything noteworthy happen in the city today?” she asked casually, stacking her newly won chips. Her eyes met Ilmar’s across the table, a silent challenge. “I hear the Morzenco district is particularly volatile.” The seated gunman grunted. “Morzencos stay busy. Always. Unlike guests who get ushered straight behind iron gates.” “A safe house I’m paying for, with my life,” Vessia corrected, her voice soft but sharp, cutting through the man’s insolence. “And I’m curious what’s keeping the Vossen Syndicate so… occupied. Half the usual patrols are missing from the upper levels.” Ilmar, who had been about to deal, paused. His pale eyes narrowed. “You notice a lot for a woman who just arrived.” “Survival requires observation,” Vessia stated plainly. “Now, are you going to deal, or are we going to talk about the weather? Because I have a feeling the weather in Ozerost is about to change, and I’d like to know if I should pack an umbrella.” Ilmar let out a sigh that sounded like grinding stone. “Alright, Morzenco. The boss has… clinics to sweep. Medical priorities across the districts. Takes a lot of hands. Nothing for you to track.” Clinics and labs. Kavrik was raiding pharmaceutical supply lines, but she kept her face still and cataloged the anomaly for later. Another hand was dealt. Vessia played with a newfound aggression, reading the tells, pushing her advantage. She had to win this one. She needed something specific. When the final card was laid, she revealed her hand, a daring bluff that had paid off spectacularly. The pot was hers. “Alright, Ilmar,” Vessia said, pushing a stack of chips towards him. “A small favor. I hear you have a private stash of Ozerost black tea. The good stuff. Smuggled from the eastern docks, before the Morzenco blockades went up. A pot of that, delivered to my suite. My winnings can cover the expense.” Ilmar stared at the chips, then at her, a strange expression passing over his face. The other men grumbled, but Ilmar merely nodded. “Consider it done, Morzenco. You drive a hard bargain.” The table fell back into the rhythm of the deal. Vessia felt a rare, fleeting sense of ease. These men, hardened and dangerous, were surprisingly… direct. Refreshing, after years of Morzenco deceit. She watched quietly while a scarred veteran on the right muttered an oath over a busted straight. The parlor abruptly lost its heat. A new presence, cold and commanding, filled the space. Kavrik Vossen stood in the doorway, his tall frame silhouetted against the dim hallway, his intense gaze sweeping the room. His gaze locked onto Vessia seated beside his enforcers, darkening with something taut and unreadable. Vessia felt a sudden chill, realizing she was only wearing her thin silk robe. The warmth of the fire, the easy camaraderie, vanished under Kavrik’s formidable scrutiny. He crossed the room in a few long strides, his eyes never leaving hers. He didn’t speak, didn’t acknowledge the men, who had fallen silent and rigid in their seats. He simply reached out, his movements smooth and deliberate, and shrugged off the heavy, fur-lined overcoat he wore. He dropped the heavy coat across her shoulders. The wool held body heat and smelled faintly of gun oil, hanging heavily over her collarbones while his jaw stayed locked in rigid stone. Before she could process the strange gesture, before she could utter a single word of confusion or protest, a deafening crack ripped through the air. The reinforced window behind Kavrik, thick and supposedly bulletproof, spiderwebbed outwards, then shattered inwards with an explosive force. A sniper’s bullet, a dark, whistling blur, pierced the glass, tearing through the space where Kavrik had stood seconds before, missing Vessia’s head by mere inches.

Smuggled Tea and High Stakes