The car hummed beneath us, London sliding past the windows like it didn't give a shit what I was carrying. I sat back, fingers tapping against my thigh, mind still half in the hospital room, half in Brooklyn's unanswered calls.
"Grendel," I said eventually.
"Yeah?"
"Is there a bank the mafia use?"
He didn't look at me straight away. Just kept his eyes on the road, jaw tight. "Depends what you mean by use."
"I mean a place where I can walk in with around one hundred and twenty grand in cash and not walk out in handcuffs."
That got his attention. He glanced over, then nodded once. "Yeah. There is."
I leaned forward slightly. "I'm not trying to hide it under a mattress. I need it clean. Deposited. No flags. No bullshit."
Grendel exhaled through his nose. "I can set up a meet. Guy handles… sensitive deposits. Knows how to move numbers without waking up the wrong people."
"Good," I said. "Set it up."
He made a call at the next light. Low voice. Short sentences. No names. When he hung up, he said, "Leo Vance. Bank of England. Private office."
I raised an eyebrow. "Bold."
"That's the point."
We parked a few streets away. Grendel got out first, opened the back, and lifted the duffel bags like they were nothing. I followed, coat pulled tight, shoulders squared. The weight of the money wasn't on my back — it was in my head. Every step felt loud.
The Bank of England didn't look like a place that cared about fear. Stone, columns, security that didn't need to shout. Inside, everything was quiet in that controlled way — the kind of quiet that tells you everyone here knows exactly who they are.
A man waited near the side entrance. Mid-forties. Clean suit. Calm eyes. No smile, but not cold either.
"Dan Lieberman," he said, extending his hand.
"Leo Vance," I replied, shaking it.
"Follow me."
No scanners. No obvious checks. Just confidence. That told me more than any metal detector ever could.
He led us through corridors that looked older than most governments, then into a private office with floor-to-ceiling windows. London stretched out below us — grey, busy, alive. On the wall behind his desk hung a large abstract painting. Muted blues, sharp lines, something chaotic trying to look organised.
"Nice view," I said.
Leo smiled slightly. "Helps people relax."
I glanced at the painting. "That yours?"
"Loaned," he said. "Artist believed chaos could be controlled if framed correctly."
I snorted quietly. "Sounds optimistic."
He chuckled. "Optimism sells."
We sat. Grendel stayed standing near the door, duffels at his feet. Leo folded his hands.
"So," he said, "before we do business, we do what looks like conversation."
I nodded. "Fair."
We talked about the area. Property prices. How the city kept rebuilding itself without ever fixing the cracks. He mentioned the painting again, said most people didn't even notice it.
"People look where they're told," he said. "Rarely where they should."
I didn't respond. I was already watching him.
Eventually, he leaned back. "ID verification."
I slid the ID across the desk. He examined it carefully, then typed something into his computer. No rush. No tension. Like this was routine.
"Amount?" he asked.
"One hundred and twenty thousand. GBP."
He nodded. "Cash?"
Grendel unzipped the bags. The sound was obscene in that room. Leo didn't flinch.
He counted efficiently. Not fast, not slow. Like someone who respected numbers. When he was done, he typed again, then turned the screen slightly so I could see.
Deposit confirmed.
"That money is now where it belongs," he said. "Untouchable unless you want it touched."
I leaned back, breath finally loosening in my chest. "Good."
He slid a card across the desk. Thick. Minimal. His name. A number.
"If you have any other personal enquiries," Leo said, "feel free to call. Anything financial that requires discretion."
I pocketed it. "I appreciate it."
We stood. He shook my hand again. Firm. Measured.
"Pleasure doing business, Dan."
"Likewise."
We left the way we came in. No looks. No questions. Outside, the city felt louder, messier — like it was trying to remind me where I actually belonged.
Grendel loaded the empty bags back into the car.
"You good?" he asked.
I slid into the seat and stared out the window as the engine started. The money was gone. Safe. Clean.
But the problems?
They were multiplying.
"Drive," I said.
The car pulled away, London swallowing us whole again.
messaged Brooklyn again.
Nothing clever. Nothing dressed up. Just truth, stripped down enough to fit inside a text box.
We should go for a drink. I'll tell you everything.
The message sat there. Delivered. No reply.
I scrolled up. Too many messages. All mine. Explanations, half-apologies, reassurances I wasn't even sure I believed myself. Each one unanswered. Each one making my chest feel tighter.
I locked the phone, unlocked it again. Poured myself a drink. Took a mouthful even though I didn't need it. Burn first. Then calm. That was the order.
The screen lit up.
Typing bubble.
Gone.
Back again.
I held my breath without meaning to.
Gatsby. 5pm.
That was it. No emoji. No softness. Just a place and a time.
I typed back fast. You want me to pick you up?
Read.
No reply.
Aired.
I stared at the screen until it dimmed, then laughed under my breath. Of course. Of fucking course.
Maxwell leaned against the wall like he owned it. "You've slept what—three hours in three days?"
"Doesn't matter."
"It does when you're bleeding stress and pretending it's confidence."
I poured another drink. Smaller this time. "She wants to talk."
"When do you fucking drink?" He said. The stress isn't worth it."
"She wants answers," he said. "And you're walking in there with none that won't bury you."
I turned to him. "You don't get to decide that."
He smiled. Not amused. "You think sitting in a bar, drinking every time you hesitate, is a plan?"
I took a sip anyway. "It's something."
"You just survived a shooting," he said. "People want you dead. You really think now's the time to bare your soul?"
"I'm not missing this."
He stepped closer. "This isn't courage. It's desperation."
I grabbed my jacket, phone already in my hand. "I didn't ask for your advice."
"You never do," Maxwell said. "That's the problem."
I ignored him. Headed for the door. Gatsby. Five pm.
If I hesitated, I'd drink.
If I broke, I'd deal with it after.
Grendel stayed in the car. I told him to wait. He nodded like he always did, engine idling, eyes forward, pretending this was just another stop and not the only thing in my life that mattered.
I saw her before she saw me.
Brooklyn stood outside the pub under the warm spill of yellow light, coat open, hair falling the way it always did—careless but perfect, like she didn't know the effect she had and didn't need to. She checked her phone, frowned, looked up again. My chest tightened. Every step I took toward her felt deliberate, measured, like if I rushed it I'd break something fragile and irreversible.
Her mouth. Her eyes. The way she shifted her weight when she waited. I noticed everything. Always did. I could've stood there all night cataloguing her existence, the curve of her jaw, the faint tiredness under her eyes that made me want to fix things I had no right to touch. She was still here. Still real. That alone felt like mercy.
"Hello, you," I said.
She turned. Looked at me. Not smiling.
"You okay?" I asked, stepping closer, instinctively lifting my hand like I always did, aiming for her arm, her shoulder—something grounding.
She stepped back.
"Let's go inside," she said, already turning away.
That hurt more than I expected.
The pub was loud, warm, alive in a way that felt obscene. Laughter, glasses clinking, music low and familiar. We sat opposite each other. She crossed her arms. I ordered shots before she even said it.
"You said I could ask anything," she said. Her voice was calm, but I knew that tone. Controlled anger.
"Anything," I said. "If I hesitate, I drink."
She nodded once. "Okay."
Brooklyn's fingers tapped the edge of her glass. "So," she said, eyes fixed on me, "what did you have to do last night."
I hesitated.
She slid the shot toward me without looking away. "Drink."
I did. The burn settled in my chest, steadying me.
"It wasn't about leaving you," I said. "I need you to know that first."
She didn't interrupt. That was worse.
"I got a call," I continued. "Someone I care about was in trouble. Real trouble. The kind where if you don't show up, you live with it forever."
Her brow creased. "And you didn't tell me?"
"I wanted to," I said quickly. "I swear I did. I was sitting there thinking about how to say it without sounding insane. Without making you look at me differently."
She scoffed. "You already did that by disappearing."
"I know," I said. "And I hate myself for it. I left you alone when I promised I wouldn't. I replayed that moment all night. You sleeping right there. Me walking away. It hasn't left my head."
Her eyes softened just a fraction.
"I kept thinking," I said, lowering my voice, "if something happened to you while I was gone, I'd never forgive myself. Ever. But if I didn't go… someone else wouldn't be here today. And I don't know how to live with that either."
Brooklyn swallowed. "You make it sound like you didn't have a choice."
"It felt like I didn't," I said. "And maybe that's my flaw. I carry things that aren't mine to carry. I always have."
She was quiet for a moment, then asked, "Do you always put yourself last like that?"
I laughed once, bitter. "I don't even know where 'last' is. I just know I couldn't sit there pretending everything was fine while someone I cared about was drowning."
She looked down at her drink. "You should've told me."
"I know," I said. "That's why I'm telling you now. Because losing you would hurt more than anything I was trying to fix."
Because if I didn't leave, I would be a dead man today
.
She took a sip of her drink, then looked at me again. "Why don't you have Instagram? Or anything like that?"
I paused.
I smiled, tired. "I have to drink now, don't I?"
She laughed despite herself. "Yes."
I took the shot. "It makes you vulnerable," I said. "Lets the world see too much. Who you are. What you do. What kind of person you really are."
She tilted her head. "You don't like being vulnerable."
"No," I said. "I don't."
She studied me for a second, then asked, "Do you really like books? Or were you just in the library because of me?"
That one didn't need a drink.
"I love books," I said. "They were all I had growing up. Quiet. Safe. They didn't judge you. Didn't care where you came from." I paused, then added, "But I did want to talk to you. You were the only person in Kingsmere who didn't treat books like ornaments. Gold-plated nonsense. You actually read them."
Her smile was small. Real.
We talked after that. Not surface-level bullshit. Real moments. The first time we met. Her laughing at me for pretending not to notice her. The party at Aureate House. The night everything shifted, even if neither of us said it out loud back then. It felt normal. Almost.
I leaned in. She didn't pull away this time.
And then the windows exploded.
Gunshots ripped through the pub like the room itself was tearing apart. Screams. Glass. Bodies dropping. I didn't understand it at first—my brain lagged behind reality, trying to catch up.
Brooklyn gasped.
Then she screamed.
She fell back, hands clutching her stomach, red blooming between her fingers.
"No," I said. "No—no—no."
I turned just in time to see the Sprinter outside, Grendel stepping out, already firing back. Two men dropped near the car that was speeding away. Then Grendel was gone. Just like that.
Everything sounded wrong. Like I was underwater. Sirens. Shouting. Someone crying. Someone yelling for help.
"Snap the fuck back in," Maxwell said, sharp, cutting through the haze.
I blinked. Hard.
"This isn't your fault," he said. "We'll deal with them. Focus. She's bleeding."
I dropped to my knees. Pressed my hands against her wound. Blood soaked through my fingers, warm and terrifying.
"I'm here," I said. "I'm here."
She was crying. "I'm scared," she whispered.
"I know," I said, leaning close. "But you're going to be okay. You hear me? You're going to be okay."
She touched my face. Her hand was shaking. "Don't leave," she said.
"I won't," I promised, even as sirens grew louder. "I'm right here."
Her eyes fluttered. Closed.
"Brooklyn," I said, panic clawing up my throat. "Stay with me. Please."
"YOU MOTHER FUCKERS!"