I didn’t answer. I didn’t trust him. But I also recognized something else in him — a hunger that could be very useful if harnessed, and very dangerous if left to its own devices. I made him a small deal: find out who was financing Orla. No more games. No more secrets. Deliver evidence, or step away for good.
He nodded. His smile was brittle but true. “I’ll find something,” he promised.
What he didn’t know—or what he didn’t tell—was the velvet club had been a delivery space for a lot of small-time players: contractors, buyers, middle-men with more hubris than talent. Tyler’s presence there didn’t make him a villain; it made him a mark and a tool. He was more dangerous to us as a man with illusions than as a useful pawn. I wished I could unring the feeling that he wanted me back as a troph
