“We need to talk about your new husband’s life expectancy, little bird.”
The air around Tazia thinned, the radiator clanking uselessly against the windowpane. Her fingers dented the cardboard. Vilem’s words, a low rumble, were meant to be a comfort, a shared secret, but they tasted like grit on her tongue. Her godfather, who had taught her how to braid hair and haggle for the best prices at the market, now spoke of her husband’s death with the same casual tone he might use for the weather.
She looked into his eyes, searching for the familiar flicker of playful mischief, but found only a polished, impenetrable surface. It was a mask, expertly crafted, that she had somehow never noticed before. The smile, still plastered to his face, seemed to stretch too wide, revealing a hint of something predatory.
“What are you talking about, Vilem?” Her voice stayed level, her spine glued to the velvet cushions. She pulled the parcel to her ribs, guarding the butter crusts.
He chuckled, a dry scrape like paper dragging across an iron sewer grate. “Just a… concern, little bird. This life your Krevan has chosen, it’s not for the long-lived, is it? Especially when one accumulates too many enemies.” He patted her cheek, a gesture that felt less like affection and more like ownership. “But don’t you worry your pretty head. Just enjoy your sweets. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of, no matter what happens to… certain parties.”
The implication hung heavy in the air, a poisonous plume. He wasn’t warning her; he was *promising* her. Promising her future, one without Krevan. A hot prickle of temper flared behind Tazia's ribs. Her rest had been disturbed, her peace threatened, and now, the man she loved was being marked for death right in front of her. The urge to grab the heavy crystal decanter from the side table and introduce it to Vilem’s smug face was almost overwhelming. But she was tired. So incredibly tired. And Vilem was family, a ghost from a simpler time.
She forced a saccharine smile. “You’re too kind, Vilem. But I’m sure Krevan will manage. He always does.” Her eyes narrowed, the lazy warmth replaced by a spark of something sharp. “He’s quite good at making sure no one bothers his sleep. Or mine.”
Vilem’s smile faltered, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes before he recovered. “Ah, yes. Krevan. A survivor, certainly. Well, I must be off. Much business to attend to. Try those tarts, little bird. They’re still warm.” He leaned in once more, his voice dropping to a near whisper, colder than river sleet. “Just remember, the biggest threats often come from where you least expect them. A lesson everyone learns, sooner or later.” With a final, lingering look that felt like a probe, he straightened and strode from the room, his expensive leather shoes silent on the plush carpet.
Krevan Dosk, meanwhile, was in the sprawling, gleaming steel kitchen of the Blackwood Estate, meticulously arranging cream eclairs on a polished silver platter. Each baked shell, stuffed with piped cream and coated in dark chocolate glaze, sat aligned within millimeters of the edge. Knuckles marked by dockyard skirmishes proved unexpectedly deft.
To the tenements outside, Krevan Dosk was a name whispered behind bolted shutters. They spoke of his eyes, cold and unyielding as a winter sky, and his silences, more terrifying than any shouted threat. They recounted tales of rivals vanishing into the Grime-Ditch, of factories brought to their knees by his mere presence. He was the port's quiet enforcer, keeping the docks obedient through sheer brutality.
But in the quiet solitude of his kitchen, arranging Tazia’s favorite dessert, he was simply Krevan. A man who found profound satisfaction in the quiet contentment of his wife, a woman who, against all logic, preferred a good nap over power plays and turf wars. Her peace was his singular ambition, a stark contrast to the relentless ambition that drove every other soul in this cutthroat city.
The heavy kitchen door burst open, slamming against the polished tile with a sound that rattled the expensive porcelain. Brix, Krevan’s notoriously jumpy sidekick, stumbled in, his pale face slick with sweat, his eyes wide with an almost comical terror. Brix's tailored wool suit hung rumpled, his pomaded part split down the middle.
“Boss! Boss, you won’t believe it! The warehouse! The one you bought to silence the… the noise!” Brix gasped, clutching his chest, wheezing for air. “It’s… it’s not empty! Not at all! It’s… it’s a motherlode, boss! A literal motherlode!”
Krevan didn’t even flinch. He carefully adjusted the angle of an eclair. “What exactly are you babbling about, Brix?” His voice was a low growl, a rumble that typically made Brix back out of the room, though panic kept his boots planted.
“Palladium, boss! Pure, unrefined palladium! Tons of it! Buried under the old floorboards, sealed up tight! A rogue shipment, abandoned by the Torvin Corporation years ago! We’re… we’re rich, boss! Filthy rich! Overnight!” Brix’s voice rose to a near shriek, his hands flapping excitedly. “They were using it as a front! A dummy corporation, but it’s real! All of it!”
Krevan finally turned, his gaze falling on Brix, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Palladium. Rare, precious, essential for everything from electronics to industrial catalysts. A fortune. His only reaction was a slight tightening of his lips. “So the racket stops for good, then?”
Brix blinked, his excitement deflating slightly. “Uh… yes, boss. Permanently. The entire district is ours now. We own the supply lines, the property, the… everything.” He looked at Krevan, expecting a roar of triumph, a fist pump, anything. Krevan simply picked up the silver platter of eclairs.
“Good,” Krevan said, his voice flat. “Tazia can nap in peace.”
He carried the tray to the sitting room, the scent of chocolate and fresh cream preceding him. Tazia was still half-asleep on the chaise, the apricot tart box Vilem had given her resting on her stomach. He set the silver platter on the low table beside her, then reached for the ribboned carton, intending to clear space on the counter.
His fingers brushed against something hard, metallic, and distinctly out of place within the delicate cardboard. His flat stare sharpened. He picked up the box, his thumb feeling along the inner edge of the lid. A barely visible seam, too perfect, too deliberate. He tore it open with a single, precise movement.
Nestled within the false bottom, a small, intricate device, no larger than his thumbnail, pulsed with a faint, almost imperceptible red light. It was crude, hastily installed, but undeniably a wiretap. And it was inside a gift from Vilem Coda.
Krevan’s pulse slowed to an icy rhythm. An operative was listening, using Tazia's fondness as an open door. That operative sat at her table.
He looked down at Tazia, her face soft and serene in sleep, a wisp of dark hair falling across her cheek. He reached out, his calloused finger gently brushing the strand away. Her eyelids fluttered, a soft sigh escaping her lips. He leaned closer, his voice a low, gravelly whisper, meant only for her. “Sleep, my light. Sleep. No one will ever disturb your peace again. I promise you.”
His gaze returned to the device in his hand, his eyes now truly devoid of warmth. This wasn’t just about him. This was about Tazia. Anyone who threatened her quiet life, her precious naps, would face a slaughter the district would remember for decades. He examined the wiretap, his brow furrowing as he noticed something peculiar. It wasn’t transmitting a signal. Instead, a tiny, glowing display on its side was silently counting down to zero.