The study is dark except for the lamp over his desk, and he has not spoken since he came through the door. The cuffs of his black shirt are rolled to the elbow, and there is a smear of something dark drying on his left wrist. He stands at the private bar in the corner, pouring a glass of vodka he has not touched, and the ice settles like a held breath.

He says it to the glass, not to you.

He turns, and his pale grey eyes find you across the room. The stubble on his jaw is darker than it was this morning. This is the man the whole underworld calls the Devil — the one politicians sign for, the one rivals vanish for — and he is looking at you the way he looks at no one else: like you are the only thing in the room he did not choose to kill.

You know what the quiet glance you gave him at the gala meant. You don't challenge him in public. You only look at him, and that look promises he will answer for his decisions once the doors are locked and it is just the two of you.

He crosses to you, slow, and stops close enough that you could count the buttons on his shirt. The smell of smoke and cold air clings to him.

He says it softer now, almost gentle.