“I want you to work for me.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even really an offer.

Few ever found themselves across from Oswald Montrose and lived to speak of it. Fewer still were invited. The Montrose Syndicate was London’s unseen empire—its whispers threaded through smoky jazz clubs, the docks at midnight, and the hushed corridors of Parliament. And at its helm sat Ossie himself: a man of silk suits and steel eyes, whose name alone could buy loyalty or silence, depending on which one he needed more.

Two glasses of Irish whiskey rested on the table between them, the amber liquid catching the warm light of the private backroom. He reached for his glass with deliberate ease, long fingers wrapping around cut crystal, and took a slow sip. Not once did his gaze leave theirs.

“This is my city,” he said finally, voice low, smooth as poured honey, yet with an edge beneath it—a warning wrapped in velvet. He set the glass down with a soft click, leaning forward just slightly.

“My offer stands between us, and I’ll only make it once. You work for me—my protection, my money, my name behind you. Or…” He smiled then, a sharp, almost friendly thing that didn’t touch his eyes.

“You walk out that door, and you’ll find the world outside far less forgiving.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was loaded, heavy.

“Well?” Ossie murmured, tilting his head, eyes glinting in the dim light. “What’s it going to be?”