CHAPTER 19: THE DEBT
The Continental bar smelled like leather, old money, and things people didn't talk about in polite company.
I eased onto a stool at the far end, my back to the wall. Old habit. New necessity. The bag of weapons sat heavy against my hip—Roberto's purchases courtesy of Elena Vasquez and her mysterious generosity.
The bartender materialized. He didn't ask what I wanted. Just poured two fingers of whiskey and slid it across the mahogany without a word.
Gold coin economy. He remembered my last visit.
I pulled out my remaining cash instead. "What's this run me?"
"Covered." The bartender nodded toward something behind me.
Elena slid onto the stool beside mine. She'd changed since the armory—traded the practical suit for something softer. Wine-red blouse, dark hair loose around her shoulders. Still wearing the same assessing eyes.
"You came back up," she said.
"Seemed rude to leave without buying you a drink." I gestured at the bar. "Except you've beaten me to it."
"I'm faster than I look."
The bartender poured her something clear. Vodka, probably. She raised her glass.
"To new investments."
There it is. I clinked my glass against hers. "To interesting conversations."
Her smile sharpened. "You remembered."
"I pay attention." The whiskey burned going down. Smoother than anything I'd had in my old life. "It's why I'm still alive."
Elena knew things.
Not surprising, given her position. Continental hospitality covered a lot of ground—room arrangements, dining reservations, special accommodations for guests who needed discretion. The kind of job where information flowed like water, and a smart woman could fill her cup.
"The Yakuza delegation left yesterday," she said, swirling her second drink. "Moscow connection, from what I hear. The Tarasovs are expanding into the Pacific trade."
"Tarasovs." I let the name sit on my tongue. Viggo Tarasov. Iosef Tarasov. The organization John Wick helped build and then destroyed. "The Russian outfit?"
"The Russian outfit," Elena confirmed. "They're the biggest game in New York right now. Viggo's been running things since the eighties. Smart man. Careful." Her lips pressed thin. "His son is neither."
"Son?"
"Iosef." The way she said it suggested something between contempt and pity. "Second generation problems. Father builds the empire, son thinks he inherited the skills along with the money."
I filed this away. According to my mental timeline—the timeline I couldn't share with anyone—Iosef was maybe a month away from the single stupidest decision in underworld history. Stealing John Wick's car. Killing John Wick's dog. Waking up a demon who'd been perfectly happy staying retired.
"Something happened recently?" I kept my voice casual. "You mentioned the organization was tense."
Elena's fingers tightened on her glass. Barely visible, but I'd spent the last week learning to read people the hard way.
"Rumors. Nothing confirmed. Iosef's been making... choices. Flexing muscle in the wrong directions." She met my eyes. "Stay away from the Russians for a while. Whatever's brewing, it won't end well for anyone nearby."
"That's twice you've warned me."
"You're worth warning." She shrugged. "Most new blood doesn't survive the first month. You've survived, what, a week? Completed at least two contracts? That's already better than average."
She's been tracking me.
The thought should have been alarming. Instead, I found myself oddly pleased. Information flowed both directions in this world. If Elena found me interesting enough to watch, that meant she saw potential.
"How do you know about my contracts?"
"I work hospitality." Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "People talk. Especially when they're comfortable. The sommelier mentioned a new face with interesting taste in ammunition. Mr. Chen's people mentioned a reliable contractor who handled a delicate situation in Chinatown. Word travels."
The brand on my forearm—hidden under my sleeve—seemed to pulse. A reminder. The System might own my kills, but the underworld tracked them separately.
"And what does the word say about me?"
"That you're efficient. Quiet. Professional." Elena tilted her head. "That you ask a lot of questions and give very few answers. That you walk like military but fight like someone who learned violence the hard way."
I thought about Chen's similar assessment. You're new. Very new. Everyone could see the seams in my disguise, the places where Matthew Radcliff's body didn't quite fit the soul wearing it.
"Army," I said. "Once. Didn't end well."
"It rarely does." Elena's voice softened. Not pity—something closer to recognition. "We all come from somewhere, Matt. The Continental doesn't care about before. Only about now."
The conversation drifted after that.
She asked about food preferences—I admitted I'd discovered a small Italian place in Brooklyn that served lasagna like my grandmother's. She asked about the city—I told her I was still learning the geography, still mapping the territories. She asked about hobbies—I laughed and said staying alive seemed to consume most of my schedule.
Elena had stories of her own. Nothing personal, nothing that revealed too much, but glimpses. A client who'd ordered room service during a three-day negotiation and eaten nothing but rare steak. A pair of assassins who'd fallen in love over the weapon catalog and asked Charon to officiate their wedding. A very serious man from Brussels who'd cried in the bar for two hours after completing his last contract.
"What happened to him?" I asked.
"Retired. Bought a vineyard in Portugal." Her mouth quirked. "He sends wine every Christmas."
"There's retirement in this business?"
"For some. The ones who save properly. The ones who don't make enemies." Elena's eyes flickered. "The ones who know when to stop."
I thought about the System. The Marker that would burn into my arm every seven days until... what? Until I died? Until I ascended to some mythical tier where the leash became optional? Until I found a way to break the binding entirely?
No retirement for me. Not unless I earn it.
"Sounds nice," I said instead. "Portugal."
"You should try the wine sometime." She finished her drink. "It's actually quite good."
The hours slipped past. More drinks. More conversation. Elena talked about Continental politics—the delicate balance between the High Table's authority and the hotels' autonomy, the unwritten rules that kept everyone civilized. I listened and asked questions that showed I was learning.
At some point, she mentioned a client who'd ordered a hit on his own mother.
"Wait." I held up a hand. "His mother?"
"Life insurance." Elena's expression was perfectly deadpan. "Apparently the inheritance clause had a specific trigger."
"That's..." I searched for words. "That's genuinely the most fucked up thing I've heard this week. And I've had a very fucked up week."
Elena laughed. Not her professional laugh—something looser, realer. It transformed her face entirely.
I realized I was laughing too. Genuine, stomach-deep laughter, the kind I hadn't felt since before the transmigration. Before the brand. Before Yuri Petrov's brains painted the side of a parked car.
I'd forgotten I could laugh.
The thought sobered me. Six days ago, I'd been dead in another world. Now I was drinking whiskey with a beautiful woman who worked for assassins, laughing about matricide. The absurdity of it all pressed against my chest like a physical weight.
"You okay?" Elena's amusement faded to concern.
"Yeah." I drained my glass. "Just... processing. It's been a strange week."
"They usually are, at first." She checked her watch—elegant, gold-banded—and something crossed her face. "I need to go. Work calls."
"This late?"
"The Continental never sleeps. Neither do its staff." She stood, smoothed her blouse. "Same time next week? Thursdays seem to work."
Thursday drinks. A routine. Something normal in this insane life.
"I'd like that."
Elena paused, her hand briefly touching my shoulder. "Take care of yourself, Matt. And remember what I said about the Russians."
Then she was gone, heels clicking across marble, and I was alone with my empty glass and the weight of weapons against my hip.
The bartender appeared. "Another?"
I considered. My back still ached from the gym fight. My knuckles were scabbed over but tender. I had a bag full of guns, zero gold coins, and approximately six days until the System demanded another life.
"Why not."
He poured.
I sat there until closing, watching the killers come and go, wondering what category I'd fall into when all was said and done.
Elena's curious what I become.
I raised the glass to my reflection in the bar mirror.
So am I.
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