Chapter 137

Mateo’s POV

The city wore its night like an armor, slick glass, amber streetlights, a hush that felt almost sacred. I met Navarro in a restaurant that smelled faintly of lemon and old money, the kind of place where people who wanted to look harmless came to make ruinous decisions. He arrived precisely on time, in a suit that had been measured on somebody who never broke a sweat for a living. There was a thin scar at the corner of his mouth that did not reach his eyes. That scar, and the way he held his hands on the table, told me everything I needed to know before he spoke.

He didn't stand when I arrived. He raised his glass a hair and mouthed something like an apology, a salve for civility. The waiter left, the lamp over us made small moons on the table, and we were alone with the clink of cutlery somewhere far away.

“Mateo Vasquez,” he began, slow and precise, as if the syllables were currency. “You’ve done a good job keeping your corner tidy.”

I shrugged. “Good is a relative term.”