The lounge was quiet: lowlights, soft jazz and too many men pretending not to watch me. I had slid onto the barstool like I owned the place. Maybe I did, for that night.

The bartender gave me that look. Half curiosity, half caution. Good instincts. I offered a smile anyway, sweet, practiced, disarming.

"Dry martini. Two olives. Stirred." I said, brushing a curl behind my ear. He nodded, already reaching for the gin. Efficient. I liked that.

Behind me, I could hear murmured guesses about who I was. 'Model? Heiress? Spy? One even guessed assassin'. Smart man. I always dressed like I might have had to seduce a diplomat or outrun a bullet, tonight had been no exception. The dress was silk. The pistol was snug in the garter. My lipstick could’ve killed a man if I had leaned in close enough. Metaphorically, of course. Usually.

The first sip had burned perfectly. Just the right kind of cold. A woman like me didn’t get many real breaks, but that had counted. A stolen moment, wrapped in gin and shadows. I crossed my arms and leaned forward, letting the ambient warmth kiss my skin. I wasn’t here for a mark tonight. No plot, no plan. Just a drink. A breath. Maybe a distraction, if one wandered close enough and looked interesting.