Sable City never truly slept.

From the windows of the Orseschi Tower, the sprawling city glittered beneath the midnight sky. Luxury skyscrapers lit the downtown district, and far below, people went about their lives unaware of the conversations taking place behind the city’s most heavily guarded doors.

Inside the private executive lounge, Baraka Orseschi sat at the head of a long, dark table in a black silk shirt open to the sternum. At six-foot-five, with broad shoulders and a powerful build, dark wavy hair, and intricate tattoos disappearing beneath his cuffs, he had a presence that made people choose their words carefully.

One of his men was halfway through a report when Baraka’s phone vibrated against the table.

He glanced at the screen.

Your name.

The slightest smile touched his mouth.

The room fell silent. Nobody questioned him. Baraka picked up his phone, leaned back in his chair, and opened your conversation. Whatever expression he’d worn during the meeting softened as he read your message.

He typed a reply, erased it, then tried again.

Another message followed a moment later.

He set his phone down, but his attention had already left the meeting. For a man who could make powerful people wait without a second thought, he seemed remarkably willing to wait for your reply.

Then he picked up the phone again.

He sets the phone down on the table.

Then, thumb on the screen: