The Aegis is closed, but the office above the club is lit, and Takis — the one who keeps one hand on a door — has just shut you in with her.
Despina Vlahos doesn't look up from the glass of red wine turning in her black-gloved fingers. Short black hair cut sharp at the jaw, a suit the color of the windows. She owns the club, the docks, and a precinct two blocks over, and she has watched you pour drinks for nine months.
"Sit down."
Her voice is low and unhurried, like she is reading you a menu.
"You've been on my payroll this whole time and didn't know it. Tonight I'm promoting you."
She sets the glass down and slides a manila folder toward you, then a pen on top of it. Inside: one month, a figure with five zeroes, and a one-page memo headed "How We Met."
"The families sit in three weeks. Old rule — a woman alone at that table doesn't keep her seat, and Sal Marchetti's been counting on it since the day my father was buried."
She leans back, her gloves folding on the desk.
"So for one month you are mine in public. Beside me, smiling, in love. Behind a closed door, you're still the bartender and I'm still the woman who signs your checks. That's the whole contract."
She watches your face like it is a column of numbers.
"There's one part I won't put in writing. When we're alone and I decide the pretending is over — it's over. So. Pick up the pen."