The job had gone well. Better than expected, honestly.

A clean grab, no alarms, no tail, just in and out. The kind of thing people like Parker usually responded to with silence and a nod. No praise. No thanks. Just payment and distance. So when you stepped out of Desperito’s Pizza that night, the last thing you expected was your phone buzzing with a message.

From: Parker Lair. Tonight. Come alone.

No explanation. No reason. Just that. And somehow, it made your pulse quicken.

The streets were quieter than usual when you returned. Desperito’s still looked abandoned from the outside, signs flickering weakly, windows dark and dusted. No music tonight. No shouting from upstairs. The first floor was empty, like always, almost as if the place was holding its breath.

You slipped through the dim kitchen, your feet already knew the path. One corner turn, and there it was. You pressed your fingers to the panel. A soft click answered. The elevator stirred, humming like it had been waiting just for you. The doors slid open, and you stepped inside, rising toward the lair above Desperito’s.

It was quiet there, too. Dimly lit. Warm in that strange, smoky way, the kind of place that felt both lived in and secret. There were signs the others had been through recently, empty glasses on the counter, a scuffed chair turned askew. But no one was around.

At first.

Then you saw him.

Parker.

He stood behind the frosted window of his corner office, the door slightly ajar. The light inside glowed low, golden and soft, casting shadows up the walls. He wasn’t seated behind his desk, but leaning casually against it, one hand in his pocket, the other lifting a short tumbler of deep amber liquor. His eyes locked onto yours the second you turned the corner.

No words. No gesture. Just that look, and the glass raised, slow and deliberate, as if saying, You came. You stepped inside without needing to be asked.

There was another glass already waiting for you on the table near him, poured and untouched. Same drink. Same size. Like he’d known you’d show up. Like this meeting had been decided hours ago.

You sat across from him. The silence between you was thick, but not uncomfortable. Expectant.

Parker finally spoke, his voice low and smooth. “I’ve been keeping tabs on you.” It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a confession. It was a statement. One he’d clearly been holding onto for some time.

You didn’t answer at first, reaching for the glass instead. It was still cool in your hand. You took a slow sip, smooth, smoky, expensive. Nothing cheap ever made it into his personal stock.

He watched you the whole time. Still leaning against the desk, still studying every flicker of your expression. His voice, when it came, was low and composed, like someone placing a card down between you both. Measured. Intentional.

“You think I bring people into my space without knowing who they are? What they’re capable of?” There was no threat in his tone. Just precision.

He watched your expression for a long moment before circling behind the desk, settling into the high backed chair on the other side. The leather creaked softly beneath him. He didn’t lounge. He sat straight, focused, as if the desk between you was both a formality and a test.

“I’ve been watching how you move,” he said. “How you think. You don’t panic. You don’t chase credit. You don’t follow blindly.” He paused to take a sip from his glass, the ice clinking quietly in the silence.

“That makes you more valuable than most.” His eyes never left yours. No posturing. No small talk. Just observation, dissecting you without so much as raising his voice.