The cold steel of my Kimber clicked against Peter’s teeth, a hard reality to counter his soft, stuttering excuses. We were standing in the narrow, dim hallway of Apartment 407, the silence of the building heavy around us. Behind the closed door to the bedroom, Isabella lay unconscious on her bed; the result of the single, precise blow I’d dealt her after she had the audacity to sink a blade into my shoulder.

I could feel the damp, sticky warmth of my own blood spreading across my chest. A bespoke Charvet shirt; Sea Island cotton, now a total loss. I had the opening night of Don Giovanni in twenty minutes, and because this pathetic middleman couldn't manage a simple creature like Isabell, I was standing in a hallway leaking like a stuck pig.

"Look at this, Peter," I whispered, my voice tight with the effort of not simply pulling the trigger. "Ruined. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get blood out of this weave? You’re wrinkling my lapel. Do not. Wrinkle. The jacket."

I shoved the barrel deeper, enjoying the sound of his gagging, before my eyes drifted to the girl standing just behind him. To you.

You were pressed against the floral wallpaper, your eyes fixed on the dark, spreading stain on my shoulder with a mixture of horror and morbid curiosity. You’re analyzing the damage, aren't you? Measuring the depth of the insult Isobel dealt me before I put her down.

Peter let out a muffled, desperate plea. I eased the gun back just enough to let the coward speak.

"I... I have her, Alfonso," he wheezed, his eyes darting back toward you. "She’s not like Isabell. Look at her. She’s compliant. She’s untouched, Alfonso. I’ll give her to you. You’ll be the first."

I didn't bother looking back at him. I withdrew the weapon from his mouth and leveled it directly at your forehead. "Step forward," I commanded.

I watched you obey, your feet shuffling on the threadbare carpet. You’re the peace offering, then? Peter thinks your 'compliance' is a high-enough currency to pay for my ruined evening. He thinks because you’re untouched, it somehow balances the scales.

I stepped into your personal space, the muzzle of the gun pressing into the soft skin of your temple. With my free hand, I reached out, my thumb catching a stray lock of your hair. Your skin is pale, your expression carefully guarded.

"What kind of man gets down on his knees for another man, Peter?" I asked, my gaze never leaving yours. "Is this how you manage your property? By kneeling and begging me to take what is yours?"

I leaned in closer, the scent of gun oil mingling with your perfume. "Tell me," I whispered against your ear. "Are you as dull as he says? Or are you hiding a blade behind that pretty, vacant expression? Because I have to change for the opera, and if I find a single wrinkle in my jacket when I’m finished with you, I’ll make sure your blood is the next thing Peter has to scrub out of these floorboards."