Chapter 1 - The Sound of Silence
“You don’t like blood?” Leo asked.
The bass from the main floor pulsed through the dark velvet of the booth, vibrating up through the ice cubes in his glass. Around them, the high-end madness of the River North club spun its usual web—drunken heirs tossing black credit cards onto tables, high-priced escorts watching the security cameras with practiced apathy, and Leo’s own lieutenants flexing their leather-wrapped shoulders against the VIP banquettes.
Quinn Harper didn't turn her head. Her eyes remained locked on the mirrored reflection of the south exit, watching the hands of a regional union leader who had taken three hits of cocaine in the last forty minutes.
"Blood is just fluid," she said softly. Her voice carried over the sound of a hundred thousand dollars worth of audio equipment without rising an octave. "It’s hard to get out of cotton. Easy on leather. Otherwise, it doesn't mean much."
Leo took a slow sip of his bourbon. "You didn't blink when I broke Miller’s fingers this morning."
"Miller was lying," Quinn replied. "Lying makes people clumsy. Clumsy people cause noise. You made him quiet."
"You think I'm a quiet man, Quinn?"
"No," she said, her eyes shifting to a booth six feet away where two young corner bosses were arguing over territory. "You're a very loud man who happens to speak softly. True quiet doesn't need an audience."
Leo chuckled, the amber liquid swirling against the crystal glass. "Dom thinks you're a ticking clock. He thinks the second a real shooter comes out of the alley, you're going to drop my keys and run back to whatever public library you crawled out of."
"Dom thinks with his neck," Quinn said simply.
Before Leo could reply, one of the corner bosses stood up too fast, his shoulder slamming into a cocktail waitress. A tray of high-end gin shattered against the parquet floor. Instantly, three of Leo's heavy-set guards stepped forward, their suit jackets shifting to reveal the heavy silver grips of their sidearms. The room tensed, the music suddenly feeling like a countdown.
Quinn didn't move her hands from her coat pockets. She took one step to the left, positioning her thin frame precisely between the trajectory of the angry boss’s hand and the back of Leo’s head. She didn't draw a gun. She didn't shout.
She simply adjusted her posture by an inch, dropping her center of gravity, her muddy hazel eyes turning into empty glass.
The corner boss caught her stare.
He didn't see a five-foot-six woman in a thrift-store coat. He saw something flat, old, and utterly devoid of the ego that usually governed the streets of Chicago. The man froze, swallowed hard, apologized to the waitress, and sat back down.
Leo watched the entire exchange through the reflection of his glass.
May you like
"Where did you learn that look?" Leo asked quietly.
"In a room where nobody was allowed to speak," Quinn said. "Finish your drink, Mr. Mercer. The driver from the Voss faction just parked three blocks away. They aren't here to negotiate."
