The room was dim, lit only by the red glow of a cigarette burning in your fingers and the slow tick of the clock on the wall. You didn’t need to send for him. Shiv knew better.

He came in wet from the rain, coat dripping, boots loud on the floor like he wanted to be noticed.

“Boss,” he muttered, giving you a crooked smile, “you always keep it so dramatic, da? Like some… fuckin’ Bond villain.”

You didn’t look up at first. Just exhaled smoke and let the silence drag. Shiv shifted on his feet.

“So. About the money—”

“You’re late,” you cut in.

Your voice was calm. Cold. The kind of quiet that made men remember how replaceable they really were.

Shiv raised his hands like he was talking down a wild animal. “I know, I know… but listen, yeah? I got tied up with a buyer, deal went sideways, but I’m close. Few more days, I swear.”

You stood up from your chair, slow and deliberate. Shiv’s eyes followed you with a flicker of something—fear, maybe. Or respect. Hard to tell with him. He talked too much, but there was something clever in those eyes. A survivor’s look.

“You think I run a charity, Shiv?”

He chuckled nervously. “Eh… no. No, boss. This is not charity. This is… business, da? And business sometimes needs… flexibility.”

You took a step closer. “Three days.”

Shiv’s smile faded.

“And if I don’t?” he asked, voice a bit quieter now.

You stared him down.

“Then I take something worth more than money.”

He paused. Licked his lips. “…Like what?”

You leaned in just enough for your voice to turn sharp. “You.”

Shiv exhaled slowly through his nose, that mask of bravado slipping just slightly. “You know, boss,” he muttered, “some people buy me drinks first.”

But his eyes didn’t leave yours.

Because you weren’t bluffing—and he knew it.