Chapter 33: THE BALCONY MAN

Chapter 33: THE BALCONY MAN
The second my brain matched his face to that night on the balcony, my feet were already moving.

“Dante,” I murmured into the comm tucked neatly under my hair, trying not to move my lips. “Far wall. Balcony doors. Black suit, no tie. It’s him.”

“Confirm ID,” Dante’s voice crackled back.

“Investor meeting, rooftop attack, one of the six...yeah, I confirm.”

“Do not engage,” Dante said.

Naturally, I engaged.

I wove through the crowd, keeping the guy in my line of sight without making it obvious. He was good — that calculated, unhurried walk that made him look like he belonged, like he was just another overpaid donor here to sip champagne and silently judge other people’s cufflinks.

Except he wasn’t looking at the art or the auction tables. He was looking at me.

We slipped past the perimeter of polite conversation into a quieter stretch of the gala, away from the soft clinking of glasses and into the muted echo of the side corridor. The lighting shifted... cooler, harsher, the kind that drains the warmth out of everything.

“Dante, I’m moving into service hallways,” I whispered.

“Stop,” he ordered, sharper now. “Wait for backup.”

“Yeah, that’s not really my thing,” I muttered.

The man glanced over his shoulder once, enough for me to catch that flicker of recognition. He knew I was on him.

I picked up my pace. He slipped through a staff door marked Authorized Personnel Only like he’d been walking these halls his whole life. I followed, heels clicking a warning on the tile, the air here carrying the smell of industrial cleaner and faint kitchen spices.

Then I rounded the corner and… nothing.

Empty hallway. No sound of footsteps. No closing door.

Like he’d evaporated.

I swore under my breath, scanning for cameras. There weren’t any, at least none I could see. Which was strange in itself. Places like this were usually wired tighter than a diamond vault.

That’s when I saw it.

On the floor, halfway between me and the wall: a small white envelope. My name on the front, written in the same clean, block letters as the one that had come with the Queen of Spades.

I crouched, picked it up.

Inside: one word, typed.

Closer.

I stared at it, pulse ticking up, brain running circles trying to unpack it. Closer to what? Closer to them? Closer to Steve? Or closer to whatever game they thought we were playing?

Static hissed in my ear. “Laura? Report.”

I swallowed. “He’s gone. Left me a note instead.”

Dante cursed, which was rare enough that I almost stopped to savor it... and told me to stay put until he got there.

But I didn’t get the chance.

Because when I turned around, Steve was there.

Not tuxedo-charmer Steve. Not boardroom Steve.

This was another version entirely... still, cold, his eyes locked on mine like I’d just crossed a line I didn’t even know existed.

And he looked furious.

Steve’s presence filled the hallway before he even spoke. The man could weaponize stillness. The charity gala music was just a muffled hum behind us now — strings and polite laughter leaking through the walls... but here, in this harsh-lit service corridor, it felt like the temperature had dropped.

“Explain,” he said.

Not “What happened?” Not “Are you alright?” Just that one clipped word, ground out like he already knew he wasn’t going to like the answer.

“I saw him,” I said. “Balcony man. From the investor meeting attack. Same face, same walk. He was here, and he was watching me.”

“And you left the main floor,” Steve said, voice low enough to rattle under my ribs.

“I followed him,” I said.

“That’s not your job.”

“Really? Because last I checked, my job description involves spotting threats and doing something about them...”

“Your job is to stay where you’re supposed to be,” he cut in. “Where we know the parameters. Where I can control the variables. Not running off into unsecured corridors chasing ghosts.”

Ghosts. The word landed sharp.

I took a step toward him, envelope still clutched in my hand. “He wasn’t a ghost. He was real. And he left this.” I held it out.

Steve took it, eyes flicking over the clean, typed word: Closer. For a heartbeat, something shifted behind his expression... not surprise, exactly. More like recognition. Then the mask was back in place, smooth and unreadable.

“You recognize it,” I said.

“I recognize bait when I see it,” he replied.

“That’s not all you recognize.”

He ignored that. “Where did he go?”

I gestured toward the end of the hallway. “Through that door. Except when I followed him, he was gone. No other exits, no cameras. Just… gone.”

Steve’s jaw flexed. “Then you were meant to follow. And meant to be found here.”

That was the part that got under my skin... found.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It means you were in the wrong place, and exactly the right person saw you there,” Steve said.

His anger wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It was the kind that worked its way under your skin in quiet, measured tones, leaving a mark before you realized you’d been hit. And it wasn’t just anger. There was something else under it. Tighter. Sharper.

Protectiveness? Possessiveness? Hell if I knew.

I was about to ask him why he cared this much... why it wasn’t just another security breach to him... when my phone buzzed in my clutch.

Mark O’Brien.

Steve’s eyes narrowed at the name lighting up my screen. “Answer it.”

I slid my thumb across the glass. “Mark?”

Static for a moment, then his voice, brisk and edged. “We’ve got a situation. Warehouse on Pier 27 just went up in flames. FDNY’s already on-site. Guess whose name is on the lease?”

I closed my eyes. “Freeman Technologies.”

“Bingo,” Mark said. “And it’s one of the places you didn’t tell the press about after the last incident. Whoever did this? They knew exactly where to hit.”

I glanced at Steve. He was already pulling his phone from his jacket, murmuring something to Dante in a voice that brooked zero discussion.

Mark kept talking. “You should both get down here. Tonight. Before evidence starts disappearing.”

“We’re on our way,” I said, already walking toward the exit.

“Be careful,” Mark added. “This fire? It’s not just arson. It’s a message.”

I hung up and shoved the phone back into my clutch. “Pier 27. Tonight.”

Steve was already moving, long strides eating up the hallway. “We’ll go together.”

I kept pace with him. “You’re not even going to pretend to think about letting someone else handle this?”

“No,” he said.

Of course not.

We cut back through the gala crowd, the glittering guests and soft candlelight a surreal contrast to the tension knotting my shoulders. People turned their heads as we passed... not because they knew anything about the warehouse fire, but because Steve Freeman in motion drew eyes the way a storm draws lightning rods.

Halfway to the exit, Dante appeared from nowhere, moving to flank us. His gaze swept the crowd once, then locked on Steve.

“We’ve got another problem,” Dante said.

Steve didn’t slow. “It can wait.”

“No,” Dante said, stepping directly into his path. “This one’s here. And it’s not something we can walk away from.”