2025-08-06 22:38:44Chapter 3: Dinner with the Devil
Elara Quinn stared at the message again.
Let’s talk. One liar to another.
8 PM. Argento Private Lounge.
Come alone.
No threats. No demands. Just six words wrapped in velvet and poison.
She knew it was a trap. But the problem was… she couldn’t tell for whom.
She arrived early.
Not because she was nervous — she told herself that — but because being late felt like giving him control.
The Argento Lounge was hidden behind an unmarked black door in the heart of the financial district. No menu. No reservations. Entry by invitation only. It was where the city’s most dangerous people drank like gentlemen and made enemies with a smile.
Inside, the lights were low and golden, casting long shadows across leather booths and mirrored walls. The scent of cedarwood and aged whiskey drifted through the air.
A waiter approached her in silence and led her to the farthest booth — one surrounded by sheer curtains that obscured it like a confessional.
Damian Cross was already there.
Of course he was.
Seated casually, collar unbuttoned, his expression unreadable. A glass of scotch sat untouched before him.
“Ms. Quinn,” he greeted.
She slid into the booth across from him. “Mr. Cross.”
His gaze flicked over her outfit. Black dress. High slit. Business meets danger. She dressed for strategy. He appreciated the move.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he said.
“Liar,” she replied smoothly. “You knew I would.”
He smiled faintly, the kind that made your skin crawl and your breath catch.
“You’re right.”
The waiter returned, served wine she didn’t order. Damian had already chosen everything.
She took a sip. Perfect temperature. Smooth. Expensive. She hated that it tasted good.
He studied her without speaking for a moment. Not with lust — with analysis. Like she was a puzzle he already knew the solution to, but was curious how long it would take her to figure it out.
“So,” she said at last, “what exactly do you want from me?”
“A conversation,” he said simply.
“Just that?”
“For now.”
He reached into his jacket and set a small black flash drive on the table between them.
“I know you’ve been feeding Victor updates. I even know which phone you’ve been using to send encrypted messages.”
Her fingers didn’t twitch. Her face didn’t flinch. But inside?
Ice.
“If you already know that,” she said, “why invite me here instead of having me arrested?”
“Because you’re still useful,” Damian said.
“To who? You or Victor?”
He leaned in slightly. “That depends on who you fear more.”
A pause.
Then she asked the one question she’d been holding back since the boardroom.
“Why me?”
Damian’s face didn’t change — but something flickered in his eyes. A memory. A scar.
“You were there,” he said softly. “Ten years ago. When they set the trap. When they signed the death warrant. When they buried me.”
She looked away, jaw tight.
“I was just a pawn,” she said. “They used me.”
“You still chose your side.”
“I was a child. You think I had a choice?”
“You had a mouth. You could’ve spoken.”
Silence pressed between them like a loaded gun.
Then she met his eyes again.
“And if I had?” she whispered. “You’d be dead for real.”
He tilted his head slightly. Calculating. Surprised… just a little.
“Maybe.”
A long pause.
Then Damian spoke again, his voice lower now.
“They’re going to come for you next, Elara. When they suspect you’ve turned, they’ll burn you before I can. You’ll need protection.”
“From you?” she scoffed.
“I’m offering a deal. Be my eyes inside their camp. Feed me everything.”
“And in return?”
“You get to live.”
She gave a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Generous.”
“I’m known for that,” he said dryly.
She glanced at the flash drive again. “And what’s this?”
“A gift,” he said. “It contains the file Victor has on you. Every surveillance photo. Every note. Every betrayal he’s hiding from you.”
She stared.
“You’re lying.”
“Maybe.”
She snatched the drive and slid it into her clutch.
“I don’t trust you,” she said.
“You shouldn’t,” he replied. “I don’t trust me either.”
The waiter returned with the food. Perfectly cooked steak. Seared scallops. Truffle potatoes. It was a distraction. Neither of them touched their plates.
When the curtain briefly parted, Elara caught her reflection in the mirror across the lounge.
And for one second… she didn’t recognize the woman staring back.
Later that night…
Elara exited through the side door into the cold night air.
Her car was waiting. She opened the door, slid inside—
—and froze.
There was an envelope on the passenger seat.
Unmarked. Black.
She opened it slowly.
Inside: three photographs.
Photo 1 — A blurry image of her sitting across from Damian at dinner.
Photo 2 — Her entering a building earlier that week: Cross Global HQ.
Photo 3 — A red “X” over her face.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number
You’re slipping, Elara.
Choose your side, or I’ll choose for you.
Meanwhile — Damian’s Penthouse
Cole stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the lights below.
“She’ll betray you,” he said.
“Of course,” Damian replied.
“But you’ll let her anyway.”
Damian poured himself a drink. “It’s not about her. It’s about what she brings.”
“Leverage?”
“No.” Damian turned toward him. “Pain. Guilt. Weakness.”
“Yours or hers?”
Damian’s voice went cold.
“Both.”
The next morning, Victor Voss walks into his study.
There’s a red envelope on his desk.
Inside is a single playing card.
The Joker.
Written in pen across the top:
I never died. I evolved.
You took my future. Now I’ll take yours.
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