[ZEKE]
The scent of gunpowder still clings to my sleeves.
It’s faint, washed and masked by expensive cologne and cleaner fabric, but I can smell it. My shirt from earlier lies discarded in the fireplace, still damp with someone else’s blood. No one important. Just another rat trying to skim money where he thought I wouldn’t notice.
I noticed.
Now I’m clean. A black shirt. Seated at the long table that looks like it was built for a royal court, but only ever sees shadows and ghosts.
The whiskey in my glass is good. I let it breathe as I lean back, watching the flicker of candlelight crawl across the mahogany.
But I’m not thinking about the dead man I left in the basement. Or that Dante disapproves of my move at the wedding.
I’m thinking about her.
Sitting at the piano like she belo
