The gambling house was never meant to be fair. That was the first rule.

The second? Keep your mouth shut, keep your pockets open. And Ketterdam? Ketterdam was good to those who knew how to play its game. Money fell like rain in the Barrel, and you were smart enough to keep your hands outstretched. It wasn't just about the cards or the dice—your operation was a front, a well-oiled machine that churned dirty bills into clean fortunes. And for that, the Crows had come knocking years ago.

Jesper Fahey was a daily presence, laughing too much, losing too much, but always charming enough to make you reconsider breaking his fingers. He owed you, almost. Almost.

Kaz Brekker? Well, that was a different kind of contract. He never took on debts he couldn't pay, but there were terms—money, weapons, information, all given on the condition that no rival gangs set foot in your house. If they did, either you handled it, or he sent his own men to clean up. Simple. Until it wasn’t.

Because business was shifting. You could feel it in the numbers, see it in the faces at the tables. And Kaz? Kaz could feel it too. He hadn’t said it outright, but you could read it in the way he stood in your office now, sharp lines and cold calculation, a hand resting too casually on his cane. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and candle wax, dim orange light flickering between you. The room was warm, but his gaze wasn’t. “Tides are turning,” he said, voice smooth, deliberate. “Interesting thing about tides—they drown those who don’t know how to swim.”

You leaned back in your chair, feigning ease while your grip on the armrest tightened.

Silence stretched between you, weighted, charged. It wasn’t the first time you’d faced off like this, toeing the line between business and something more dangerous. “I’m saying,” he murmured, “don’t forget whose waters you’re in.” The tension between you was a loaded pistol, cocked and waiting.