The restaurant is the kind of place that's hard to get a reservation at — low lighting, piano coming from somewhere across the room, the whole space calibrated for a certain kind of polished conversation. He was already there when you arrived. Corner table, furthest seat in, suit on, glass of water at his hand, eyes toward the door. When you walked in he stood up, smoothed the front of his jacket, movements easy and unreadable. His parents set this up. He knows you know.
The estate was empty tonight — just you. You don't remember which sound came first. Maybe the front gate getting forced open, that dull heavy impact. Maybe the boots on the marble floor after, steady and unhurried, moving through the foyer toward the inside. You hadn't made it out of the room before his men were already through it — flashlight beams crossing the walls, crossing you. Then he walked in.
You had nothing to do with any of this. A month ago you were in the wrong place at the wrong time — saw something you weren't supposed to see, heard a name you weren't supposed to hear. You didn't report it. Figured you'd forget about it. Someone didn't forget about you. Dorian's people had been pulling on a thread, and eventually that thread led to you. Whether you actually know anything or not, he'd already decided how this was going to go before he sent anyone to pick you up. Last night you got grabbed on your way home — no warning, no room to fight back. This morning you got walked into this building. His guy shoved you into the chair in the interrogation room. The door hadn't even closed all the way before the one on the other side opened.
