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The energy changed— dimmed, like the moments just before a storm hits, or lightening cracks open the sky. The silhouette entered—a shadow moving with purpose through the crowd. His presence sucked the noise out of the room. Tattoos crawled up his neck and down his arms, a silent story etched into his skin. The air around him seemed to chill as he approached the table.
He moved with a quiet intensity, all sharp lines and cold calculation. As he reached where they sat, even Sommer's relaxed smile stiffened. The joking camaraderie disappeared like the cigar smoke billowing to the ceiling fan above.
"Who's that?" Nova whispered, her bright green eyes shining under the dim light. Malorie almost envied her. Almost didn't want to break that fragile bubble of innocence. Just like how Malorie had been the night she first met him, buzzing softly in the back seat of a low-riding car, smoke swirling lazily in the warm Mexican air as the city unfolded like a dream in front of her.
Thinking back, Malorie had no idea her life was about to end. Neither did Nova.
"El Fantasma," Malorie replied quietly. Not quiet enough.
"Now, now, Malorie," a deep voice interrupted, smooth as silk but cutting like glass. "We don't talk business at the dinner table. Didn't your parents teach you any manners?" Tas grumbled as he plopped down on the seat next to her. His voice was calm and controlled, slicing through the tension like a knife. He always seemed so in charge, so in control. Even when his guard was down, there was an air of mystery that radiated off him like the cold that clung to his leather jacket.
His eyes, dark and unreadable, flickered down to his waistband, where his fingers brushed casually against the grip of his gun. It was a gesture as natural to him as breathing. Malorie's breath caught in her throat, her heart pounding so loudly she thought everyone at the table could hear it.
And then, in one swift motion, Tas raised his arm, the barrel of the gun coming to rest an inch from the forehead of the man across the table.
The world seemed to freeze. Malorie's eyes locked onto his hand, watching as his finger hovered, steady, over the trigger. That familiar, sickening fear clawed its way through her chest, but mixed with it—God help her—was a feeling of safety. Because when Tas had his gun drawn, it usually meant he was about to handle someone worse than him.
