Chapter 26 · Blood On Linen

The dog tag skids across the white tablecloth and knocks into the stem of my wineglass.

Dented brass. Dark crust jammed into the stamped letters.

KESSLER, D.J.

My hand moves before my head can clear. I grab it. The metal is tacky, and I hate myself for knowing exactly what tacky means.

"Relax," Victor says. He saws through his veal like we're discussing the lunch special. "It's half-dry. Don't faint on my clean linen."

"Where is he?"

"Breathing. For now." He chews. Takes a sip of red. Dabs the corner of his mouth with a stiff cloth napkin. "You came to my table, Mara. Tables have rules. I talk, you listen. Then we deal."

The Gilded Crane is dead silent. Victor bought out the whole floor just to look me in the eye. Two hired suits stand by the kitchen swinging doors with their hands folded low over their belts, dead-eyed as church ushers with Glocks under their armpits.

I unclench my fist. Danny's blood sticks in the creases of my palm.

My little brother wore this tag through every stupid mistake he ever made. He wore it the night he blew three grand on Castellane sports books.