My name is Rowan Hale.

For six years, the contract boards called me Nocturne. I ranked first often enough that men twice my age stopped using my name and started using prayers.

Then I retired.

Not from guilt. Guilt requires free time, and professional murder has terrible hours.

I retired after finding a better job.

The offer arrived ten minutes after I finished my last contract.

The mark lay facedown beside a hotel desk in Prague, one hand still wrapped around a room-service menu. Rain striped the windows. Somewhere below, a tram bell rang twice.

I cleaned the suppressor, checked the hall camera loop, and opened my burner.

TRANSFER COMPLETE.

The usual fee hit my offshore account, followed by an extra hundred thousand dollars.

A token of appreciation from the client.

Generous clients were rare. Living ones were rarer.

I left through the service stairs, changed coats in a public restroom, and walked three blocks to a nightclub where the bass was loud enough to erase memory. After a job, I needed noise. Crowds. Proof that the world still contained people who planned to wake up tomorrow.

I took the darkest booth in the room.

Someone sat across from me.

Leander Cross wore a charcoal suit, gold-rimmed glasses, and the expression of a man accustomed to owning every door he entered. Publicly, he ran Cross Holdings. Privately, he controlled most of Chicago's organized crime from the lake to the freight yards.

His photograph had appeared in two intelligence dossiers and one business magazine. The magazine called him a visionary. The dossiers used shorter words.

He had also paid my bonus.

Leander placed an old photograph on the table. A dark-haired boy smiled at the camera, one front tooth chipped.

"You look like someone I used to know," he said. "Someone I lost."

I studied the picture. "You may need a better optometrist."

"I need company."

"Hire an escort."

"I did my research, Mr. Hale. Your municipal-records job pays forty-two thousand a year." He slid a black card toward me. "Move into my house. Attend events when required. Keep me company when I ask. Fifty thousand a month."

I had already risen halfway from the booth.

I sat down again.

"Separate bedroom?"

"Unless invited."

"No exclusivity without negotiation."

"Agreed."

"No weapons locked away."

The smallest pause.

"Keep them out of sight."

My fingers stopped on the card. A legitimate businessman should have asked why an archivist carried weapons.

Leander lifted his whiskey. "Chicago."

"What?"

"You were about to ask where."

I looked at his untouched drink, the two guards pretending not to watch us, and the exit reflected in his glasses. He had chosen the only seat that gave him a clear view of every approach.

"And I quit when I want," I said.

His gaze held mine. "If you still want to."

That should have sounded like a threat.

Instead, it sounded like confidence.

I tucked his card into my pocket and moved around the table. My hand settled on his shoulder.

"All right, Mr. Cross." I smiled for the security cameras. "Take me home."

The flight left before dawn.

Leander worked through most of it, redlining contracts while I pretended to sleep. Every thirty minutes, his attention shifted from the screen to my hands. Not my face. My hands.

At nine, a flight attendant brought coffee. The plane dipped, and the cup skated across the table.

I caught it before it fell.

Leander's pen went still.

"Good reflexes," he said.

"Municipal archives are vicious."

"I'm sure."

Chicago appeared beneath us in gray grids and winter water. A black car waited on the runway.

Halfway to the city, I noticed the motorcycle.

It remained three vehicles back through two turns, vanished near a tunnel, then returned beside the river. The rider wore a mirrored helmet. No visible plate.

I leaned forward. "Your driver should take Lower Wacker."

Leander glanced up from his phone. "Why?"

"Traffic."

The driver changed lanes without waiting for confirmation.

The motorcycle followed.

At the next ramp, I opened my door.

Leander caught my wrist. "What are you doing?"

"Improving traffic."

The rider accelerated. I waited until the bike drew level, then threw the black card Leander had given me. It struck the helmet. The rider flinched and drifted toward the divider.

Our driver cut hard down the ramp.

The motorcycle disappeared above us.

Leander still held my wrist.

His thumb rested over my pulse.

"An archivist," he said.

"We get followed by overdue-book enthusiasts."

"Wrong department."

"Budget cuts."

His mouth almost moved.

The Cross house stood above Lake Michigan, all black stone, glass, and expensive silence. Armed cameras tracked the car up the drive.

An older woman waited inside the foyer. Silver threaded her dark hair. She looked at Leander, at me, then at his hand still locked around my wrist.

"Mrs. Alvarez," he said, releasing me. "This is Rowan Hale."

"I gathered."

Her gaze moved to my shoes. Prague rain had dried along the soles.

"No blood on the carpets," she said.

Leander went very still.

I smiled. "I like her."

My room had a fireplace, a private terrace, and sheets that probably cost more than my first gun. A sealed envelope waited on the desk.

Inside lay the companion contract.

Clause twelve required discretion. Clause seventeen covered public affection. Clause twenty-one promised a severance payment if Leander ended the arrangement.

The final line had been added by hand.

The door is never locked from the outside.

I read it twice.

Then I checked.

The door opened.

Across the hall, Leander stood in the shadows with his jacket over one arm.

"Satisfied?"

"Not remotely."

"Good."

He walked away.

I shut the door, took out my burner, and messaged the only man who knew I was alive.

ROWAN: I may have made a tactical error.

Luca answered at once.

LUCA: Is he handsome?

I looked through the glass wall as Leander crossed the courtyard below.

ROWAN: Catastrophically.

The motorcycle appeared at the far end of the street.

It stopped beneath a dead lamp.

This time, the rider lifted one gloved hand and pointed at my window.

Then the light came back on.

The street was empty.