Chapter 17: 12| Mission

┏━━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━━┓ Mission ┗━━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━━┛ : Mission (Tristan's POV) "Tristan?" I continued to stare blankly at the chessboard between us. "Tristan?" Cal repeated with a light huff this time. I lifted my gaze to his and raised a brow in question. "I refuse to believe that I'm suddenly so phenomenal at chess that it's taking you over fifteen minutes to make your next move. What world are you in?" Leaning back in my seat, I dropped my hands on my thighs. "You win. I can't be bothered to think about chess tonight, let alone what moves I should be making to win." "Clearly," he deadpanned, "you have far too much on your mind. This is the most restless I've seen you in a long time. Could it have something to do with my sister?" he questioned, arching a mocking brow at me. "I can't promise not to snitch so be careful of what you tell me." My eyes narrowed on him. "And that is precisely why I choose to tell you nothing." Everything else was on one side but telling Cal that I was going to kill his sister? Not a very good idea. There wasn't much he could do so I already did the honors of telling Amara myself but it would be better if my plans never reached Elijah. Not until Amara was dead and out of my way. "I have a meeting," I announced, rising to my feet and grabbing my jacket off the back of my seat. "It's almost midnight. You're meeting a client?" he asked. "No. I'm meeting Dante." He paused, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. "Dante?" I sighed, tilting my head to one side. "He's always underground, I know. Did you think he only comes out to help you?" "He's helping you? For free?" I scoffed lightly, "Please. I'm not stupid enough to ask him for help. The favors he asks for in return often require me to put my life on the line and I'm in no mood to do that tonight. We're just meeting to talk." He shrugged in response and stood up to refill his drink at the bar while I left, getting in my car and driving down to The Dove, as per Dante's request. He never liked to be seen out in public yet strangely enough, he chose a nightclub for tonight's meeting. Dante was some sort of an anomaly in our world. Nobody knew where he came from, how he ended up in New York or anything about how he truly worked and yet he managed to make it to the top. He worked with anybody and everybody if they paid him the right amount. If anybody needed any job done, he would find a way to do it and walk away with his hands squeaky clean, whether it be murdering somebody, in which case he'd take the role of a hitman, or whether it be robbing somebody, in which case he'd become one of the smoothest criminals. From one extreme to the other, he's done it all. You couldn't expect any less from an ex-FBI agent who went rogue and was never caught. Parking my car, I got out, left my jacket discarded in the passenger seat, and walked in. Ignoring the groans and complaints as I walked past the long cue, I came to a halt in front of the bouncer up front. "Where's Tim?" I questioned, pulling out my wallet and the first bill that touched my fingers. "He took the night off," the bouncer replied, taking the hundred dollar bill from my fingers and unhooking the chain, letting me through. I cringed almost immediately once I entered the club. The bright neon and strobe lights were blinding as I strode through the crowd with music blaring through every speaker in this place at a deafening pitch and volume. Pausing once I made it to the other end of the bar, I moved to the glass staircase on the far right and climbed upstairs. "Mr. Harper," the guard greeted me before opening the door for me. Releasing an annoyed breath, I walked into the room. The music instantly dropped to nothing but a soft hum and the dim lights made up for the flashing lights downstairs. "You survived," Dante called out from his spot on the couch. "Barely," I muttered, glancing down at the crowd through the huge glass wall we sat behind. Knowing that it was reflective and nobody could see us from below, I took a seat. "Drink?" he offered, glancing pointedly at the bottles kept in front of us. I shook my head once. "Not tonight." He eyed me for a minute but didn't utter another word. "Why the change of place?" I questioned, "I thought you hated clubs." "I do," he replied dryly, "I'm working, Tristan. I'm on a mission if you will." I looked at the several bottles and the third empty glass with a red lipstick stain lining the edge. "I see that," I said in amusement. He ignored the taunt but replied with, "I'm doing my research." "On?" I pressed further. "On Anastasia Cobalt Vitalio," he exhaled softly in annoyance. I leaned back in my seat. "The agent?" He hummed in confirmation. "You're working with a Fed?" I scoffed lightly, knowing damn well that his biggest rule was that he would never work with a Fed ever again. "I didn't ask for her to become the exception. It's a big job, I have no choice but to work with her. And if she's working with people like me for people like you and I do, she's more corrupt than she shows, isn't she?" "I suppose so," I replied, following his gaze down to the crowd. "Is she breaking any of her rules or is it just you?" "You wanted to meet," he said instead, "if it was just to catch up, you wouldn't ask, you'd just track me down since you're so good at it." I chuckled lightly. "You need information?" he asked knowingly. "I do," I nodded, "you know me too well, Dante." "Unfortunately," he muttered. "What do you need to know?" "Everything there is to know about Elijah and Amara Milano." His gaze cut to mine sharply. Finally looking away from whoever he was staring at in that crowd, isn't he? "You've known her for years. You can do that yourself." "I've known her for years yet I know nothing about her. We keep our distance and our relationship begins and ends at animosity." "You were friends, Tristan. You know her more than you realize. In fact, you seem to be the only person in this world who knows anything about her at all." He set his glass on the table and rested his elbows on his knees. "I've had people ask to look into her before. Several times. There's nothing to dig up. She keeps her tracks wiped clean. Her past is a mystery and even after coming to New York, she's kept it all under wraps." After meeting Amara when I was just eleven years old, we sure did become friends quickly and despite that friendship surviving seven years, it was holding on by a tether. When I left for college and went back to Russia, that tether finally snapped. But I knew long before I left that our friendship was long gone and we were both holding onto something that didn't exist. In the seven years that I knew her, Amara kept herself a secret. Even as a kid, she never revealed too much of herself, never divulged too much of her past. The stories she told me were vague and she almost never answered my questions directly. I never blamed her for it because I was the exact same. When I came to New York with Michael, he strictly told me that no one should know why I was forced to move or who I truly was. Amara must have had her reasons too. Whatever they were, her secrets and mine became the reason we could never be true friends. I realized only after leaving New York that we were never really friends. We just found some level of comfort in each other, so we stuck around and spent time together but once the rose-tinted shades came off, we realized we didn't know or trust each other at all. "I need to know more about her, Dante," I persisted, "without her knowing that I'm looking into her past. I need to know why and when she came to New York, about her family, how she started working, everything." He glanced ahead as he leaned back in his seat again. Nodding forward, he said, "Ask her yourself then. She's right here." I followed his gaze and searched the crowd, spotting her almost immediately where she sat at the bar, her chin in her hand with a flirty grin to offer the bartender. A breath escaped me as my tongue traced the inside of my cheek. "Of course she is," I whispered mostly to myself. As the bartender turned away to make her a drink, she searched the crowd with devious and cunning eyes. Until she found her rival for the Ambrose case in the crowd. Since I was on that case myself, I knew exactly who she was watching in the crowd and I knew just how dangerous things would get if they recognized her. "They've already seen her," Dante mumbled, watching the show in amusement as he nodded pointedly towards the group of men Amara was here to tail. I watched from my seat as they signaled the bartender. How can she be so smart yet so fucking stupid? She better not take that drink. She was here on her own mission. Startled, she spun in her chair and someone grabbed her by the shoulders. Slowly, I turned to look at Dante. "Looks like this is just as much your problem as it is mine." "Anastasia's not my problem, Tristan," he replied, pouring himself a fresh drink, "not yet." We watched from upstairs as the bartender proceeded to slip a pill not only into Amara's glass but even Anastasia's. "Well, now she is," Dante added, huffing in annoyance before rising to his feet. "Are you coming?" he asked. I stood up but paused behind the glass wall, pocketing my hands. "You have to work with Anastasia so you're obligated to help her," I told him, "but I won't help Amara. I want to see how she does… since she claims she can take care of herself so well." He paused briefly on his way out. "And if she can't?" I turned to him. "You're going to let someone else kill her?" How does he… "I can see it all over your face, Tristan. You can't wait till she's at your mercy. Knowing what I know about her, those men won't walk away alive tonight. But are you really going to let someone touch what's yours?" Hitching his sleeves higher up his forearms, he walked out and made his way downstairs, gliding through the crowd and pushing Anastasia's drink aside before she could grab it. I watched as he briefly greeted Amara and warned her about the drink discreetly before whispering something in Anastasia's ear. When she argued, he grabbed her sternly by the arm and pulled her out of there, glancing up at me before he did. From his warning, Amara grew suspicious of the drink and slid it back to the bartender. But judging by what she did next, I grew certain that this girl was on a suicide mission. Because she stood up, walked right over to those men, and… asked one of them to dance. . . . . . Chapter 12