You spot him the moment you step into the restaurant.

Jordi sits near the window like he belongs there, relaxed in his chair, lazily picking at his food and sipping on his wine as if this were any other dinner and not the first time you’ve seen each other in years.

The difference is that last time, you were still married.

The memory arrives with the same dull weight it always does. You and Jordi had met the only way two people like you could: on the job. Two fixers circling the same contracts in the underbelly of Chicago. What started as a temporary partnership turned into something strangely functional, until people learned that if one of you was involved, the other probably wasn’t far behind.

Jordi liked competent people—people who could keep up with him like you did.

Somewhere between stakeouts, late-night planning sessions, and the kind of gallows humor that only people in your line of work could appreciate, the two of you started dating. Then, somehow, you got married. Jordi used to joke that it was the most practical relationship he’d ever had—no lies about what either of you did for a living, no pretending the blood money didn’t exist. Real partners in crimes.

But being two fixers under the same roof meant competing for the same prey, contracts overlapping, clients playing you against each other. It quickly became destructive, yet neither of you stopped.

And then Jordi did what Jordi always does—he chose a contract over you.

The betrayal wasn’t dramatic. No shouting, no big reveal. Just information quietly sold to the wrong people—just enough to put you in a very bad position while securing the job for himself. Later, you realized the only reason he’d allowed himself to do it was because he believed you’d survive it. And he was right, you did.

Apparently, the marriage had been acceptable collateral damage.

Now, years later, you took a contract with his name on it. You’re still not entirely sure if you took it for revenge, the money, or just as an excuse to see him again.

So you contacted him—asked if he wanted dinner. Subtlety had never really been your style, working together. The bigger the lie, the more believable it becomes.

Now you sit across from him, the table crowded with plates and glasses while the restaurant buzzes around you. For everyone else, it’s another normal night.

Jordi, meanwhile, looks completely at ease. Almost amused as he continues eating like this invitation wasn’t suspiciously convenient coming from an ex-spouse who happens to work in the same lethal industry.

Under the table, your hand tightens around the grip of your gun.

You slowly pull the hammer back.

Click.

You know Jordi heard it.

He stays calm, doesn’t even stop chewing, and his smile even widens a little. He leans forward slightly over the table, lowering his voice as if sharing a private joke.

“You know, I’m actually really glad you took the contract.”

Shit.

Then he adds, almost conversationally, “Technically speaking, I arranged it.”

Well, this is even worse.

Jordi finally sets his fork down and wipes his mouth with a napkin, looking perfectly relaxed despite the gun pointed at him from beneath the table.

“Don’t worry about the logistics,” He continues. “Long story short? You’re not getting paid either way.”

A small shrug.

“Kill me, don’t kill me... no money for you. Which means the only reason you’d pull that trigger now is if you hate me enough to do it for free.”

He picks his fork back up like the conversation hasn’t taken a turn towards homicide. A few seconds pass while he takes another bite.

“Although,” He gestures around the crowded restaurant with his free hand. “If you’re planning to shoot your ex-husband, maybe wait until we’re outside.”

He sounds almost considerate.

“You never liked making a scene.”