— Chapter 52 —

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"Edge," the stranger smiled wryly. "I've been looking forward to meeting you in person."

He stuck out his hand for me to shake.

The guy was shorter than me by a few inches, dressed in an all-black suit and tie. The only pop of color to his outfit was a bright pink handkerchief in his breast pocket. He looked about double my age, shown only through the few lines across his forehead and crow's feet by his coffee-colored eyes. His pale skin was flecked with skin spots by his neck and hands, and his hair appeared to be dyed a deep shade of black. There was something incredibly unnerving about his smile—I couldn't put my finger on it.

"You're Midas?" I asked flatly.

The gentleman put away his hand, his left eye twitching slightly.

"I see you've heard of me—no doubt from that pesky biker upstairs," he said, an annoyed look in his eyes. He waved his hand with disinterest. "Oh-well. It was about time the two of us met. We have a lot to talk about."

Chains stood behind me, his attention on the two men with guns strapped to their hips. A small section by the stage separated by ropes, the area was illuminated by red spotlights that outlined the leather seating and glass table—which was littered with cigars, despite the no-smoking signs.

I side-eyed the two bodyguards standing only a few feet away, mirroring Chains' resentment.

"And the guns?"

Midas tilted his head, giving me a crooked smile. "Apologies. For my own protection, you see. You don't go into my line of business without forming a few enemies."

You don't say.

"And what line of business would that be?"

With amusement, he shrugged, "Contract work."

I couldn't help but scoff lightly at the answer. A contract criminal. Surprising, considering his... flashy personality. It wasn't often I came across people in his line of business. And it meant that he was being paid to be here—he was being paid to follow orders.

From who?

Midas added, "It's quite the cut-throat industry."

He went to put out one of his burning cigars, crushing the end on a messy ashtray.

"Enough," I said, drawing my focus to the topic at hand. "I was told you had information on—"

He cut me off before I could finish.

"I'd be more than happy to discuss business with you, my friend, but I feel there are too many ears listening," he pointed out. "And I think that we could both use a drink."

"He can't be serious," Chains scoffed, out of the old man's earshot.

Midas wiped his hands against his suit and gave me a simple glance. "Join me."

It was an order more than it was a request. He started to walk away from his table while the bodyguards quickly assumed to follow behind, only he passed them a humored grin.

"Please, gentlemen. There's no threat," he chuckled, tilting his head to me with wide eyes. "And besides... Edge here can't even fire a gun. Isn't that right?"

I gritted my teeth together. Midas observed my reaction, fire dancing in his eyes.

My thoughts were going at a thousand miles a minute. Nobody knew that about me. How the fuck can he know that about me? That knowledge was constrained to me and the nights I spent with my knees to my chest, losing myself in one panic attack after another while I stared at the weapon on the floor that I just couldn't bring myself to use.

He shouldn't know that about me.

After a moment, Midas laughed. "See?"

I turned to Chains while the contract criminal began to depart into the crowd, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his tailored suit. The stranger was, in a word... energetic.

"Stay here," I muttered.

A look of displeasure crossed Chains' lips, but he said nothing.

I spotted Midas in the mob of drunk people on the dance floor and followed behind, arriving to the bar at the other end of the club.

I couldn't help but seek Elliot out in the crowd. He was sitting down by the middle of the counter with a glass of vodka in his hands, lost in conversation with James. They looked to be civil, at least, though you could hardly tell much from this distance. I just couldn't understand why Elliot was here—I thought he hated his ex with a passion. I did. I fucking do.

When we found a mostly-vacant space down the end of the counter, Midas passed me a pleased glance. "Much better." Waving his hand over to a bartender, he ordered himself a glass of gin. With a sly shimmer in his eyes, he then requested further, "I'll get a glass of Jim Beam for my friend here, too. Neat, please."

The bartender passed him a polite smile. "Of course."

I grazed the piercing on my tongue beneath my teeth, uncomfortable. It was quickly becoming clear that Midas knew more about me than he was letting on. From my history, right down to my favorite damn drink... and I couldn't help but wonder just what else he was privy to.

"So you've done your research," I said, crossing my arms. "Should I be impressed?"

He stared at me with the eyes of a fucking owl. "Impressed? Maybe not. It's just a hobby of mine to learn everything there is to know about my friends... and particularly my enemies. Tell me: which one are you?"

I clenched my jaw slightly.

"I guess that depends on you, doesn't it?"

A small tug strained his dry lips. "Yes... maybe it does."

By the time the bartender had arrived, the stranger had taken his seat on an empty barstool. I opted to stand—no part of me wanted to extend our meeting for any longer than necessary.

"Thank you, darling," Midas purred, giving the bartender an appreciative glance as she left the glasses on the counter. "And hey—give my friend over there a refill. The one with the blonde hair. Earrings."

A scowl shot over my face at the request.

Snapping my focus down the bar, I saw Elliot still sitting by James, his chin resting on his palm. He'd managed to smile, probably at whatever James had said. But his glass was empty—and was the only one with blonde hair and earrings.

Midas knew about Elliot.

I glared down at the whiskey sitting before me, gripping the glass firmly enough that I was sure it would break. Midas sipped his gin with a sly smirk and waited for the bartender to leave before continuing with the conversation.

He rested his glass down and clapped his hands together, a crooked grin crossing his cheeks.

"Well, Edge!" He began, leaning in with interest. "You've been causing quite a bit of trouble for me lately, haven't you?"

"How do you figure?"

A chuckle left his lips.

"Well, that heroic little display you put on by trying to interfere with my races, of course," he elucidated. There was a deceptive humor to his tone. "Pushing those kinds of speeds in that weather, leaving me one of my best racers hospitalized, and following the other into a no-fly zone. I heard he shot you, by the way. You understand why he had to, naturally, but I'm glad no serious damage was done."

The old bastard's answer was a slap to the face.

So it was him—it was all him. The races, the deaths, the bets... he was running it all. The motherfucker who'd been causing so much chaos was sitting right in front of me, and he didn't look to be carrying a shred of remorse for any of it.

Hatred laced my speech like venom.

"They were racing in city streets. One of your riders died," I snarled. If words could kill, you could arrest me right fucking now. "Putting your simple lack of concern for that aside, I can obviously tell that you're new in my city. So let me make it clear for you: Boston is off-limits to street racing of any kind."

Midas shrugged. "While it was certainly unfortunate what happened to my rider, he was killed because he made a mistake. Simple as that." He paused to rest his arms on the counter. "A lot of consideration goes into our placements for races—and it's clear now that he didn't meet the standard. I can assure you that we won't have the same lapse of judgment again."

Is he serious?

A mistake. A lapse of judgment.

He'd made it sound so one-dimensional, as if the only difference between life and death came down to something as simple as human error. If you were to make a mistake and die for it, then it was your own fault for being incapable—and nothing else mattered.

The very concept lacked any degree of empathy. It made me grievously nauseous.

"Maybe you didn't fucking hear me," I spoke slowly, trying to scrub my thoughts clear of the concept. "Nobody is allowed to race in Boston. And that's not going to change because of a money-hungry fucker like you."

He didn't seem to care, offering me a bland shrug.

"How resolute are you about that decision, my friend?" He asked with wide eyes. "Because oh, do I have the deal for you. I understand that your father was quite the pioneer in cleaning up this city back in the day—but I sincerely hope you don't share his same, stubborn ideologies. Righteous as they are, I believe I can offer you a deal that would better serve both our interests."

"I don't want to hea—"

"I'd like to continue hosting my races in this city," he said, cutting me off. "To do that, I need uninterrupted access to the roads I deem fit for use... and that would require you and the Stray Dogs to quit standing in my way. So in return for your complacency, I'd be willing to cut you in on our earnings."

"Are you fucking delusional?"

Midas's eye twitched again.

"Don't be so quick to turn down the offer," he told me. "An operation like this ropes in thousands per race... that's millions per year, just from bets alone. You could be keeping a large chunk of that for yourself, my friend—and that's not including the earnings from the bets I'd be allowing the Stray Dogs to participate in. Imagine everything you could do with that money. For one, your bikers would never need to hang around a run-down pub like Joe's again. Just think about it."

There was nothing about his offer to think about.

He wasn't the first person that had come my way expecting to throw a few stacks and get everything they wanted. The only reason Boston had been going well for this long was because the Stray Dogs didn't negotiate when men like Midas came along with their pretentious agreements.

I'd turned down a lot more money for a lot less trouble.

"If you think money is enough to sway me, you're a fool," I stated, putting it simply. "This is your first and only warning: pack up your shitshow and get the hell out of my city. Because if I catch any of your riders racing on my streets, it won't be them that I come for... it'll be you."

Midas's wild eyes met my own, and it finally started to look like he'd finally got my message through his thick skull.

With a softer tone of voice, the unpredictable man's once spry expression was overcast with darkness.

He uttered, "It seems that we're not going to be friends after all, Edge."

"No. We're not."

Though, just as Midas parted his lips to say something more, a shadow was cast over his figure by someone who'd approached our conversation. Stepping between us, the stranger rested a clear glass of alcohol on the counter with a heavy thud.

The unnerving smile pulled on Midas's lips again.

"Why, you've been staring at me for so long that I was starting to think you'd never come around!" He grinned with crooked teeth. "You can't imagine my surprise at seeing you back in this city... James."

Standing with his hands in the pockets of his scarlet bomber jacket, a cruel and daunting scowl rested on James's typically blank face. And the drink he'd rested on the counter was Elliot's—the same one that Midas had paid for.

A crazy mobster and a silver-spoon nobody... yet the two of them knew each other.

Just who the hell was Elliot's ex?

"Are you satisfied?" James sneered. "Does a lecherous old man like you get off on making people uncomfortable? Is that it?"

Midas paused.

"I take it he didn't want the drink, then," he sighed, a look of disappointment creasing his face. "Oh-well. What is it you kids say nowadays... you miss all the shots you don't take?"

James looked just about murderous.

And he wasn't the only one, because my fists were itching with anger in the pockets of my jacket. At least James and I finally seemed to have something in common—a shared hatred for the fucking prick before us.

Midas tilted his head towards James, something wicked about his joviality. "Does your father know you're back in Boston? Must be quite the reunion."

"Tanjiro isn't my father," he hissed. "And you'd do well to remind the old bastard of that—after you explain to me exactly what you're doing here."

Midas shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. "Such a nasty vocabulary... did nobody bother to teach you respect as a child? How shameful."

James finally passed me the glare I knew he'd been itching to shoot my way since he'd first approached our conversation. But he didn't say anything—instead, his expression made it clear that the two of us would never be able to trust each other. Not while either of us had anything to do with Midas.

"Get up," James spoke to the man in the black suit. "We'll finish this conversation elsewhere."

Midas laughed tightly.

"Alright, then," he smiled, getting to his feet. "After all... who am I to disagree with a Kato?"

And as James turned into the crowd to leave, the stranger paused to rest his hand on my shoulder.

"You'd do well to reconsider my offer, son."

That was the last thing he said to me before following behind his irritated companion, disappearing into the crowd. I clenched my jaw, frustrated—for whatever reason, it was as if our meeting had left me with more questions than answers.

Nothing good could come from a man like that roaming freely in this city.

Lost in my own thoughts, I found myself resting a glance on Elliot sitting halfway down the counter. His head was down with a shy lack of enthusiasm, drinking by himself between busy patrons. It didn't look like he was in the greatest mood.

I wasn't about to let him sit alone.

The night so far had been... eventful.

It hadn't been all that bad, aside from the... unusual older man who paid for my refill earlier. He'd given me a weird smile from the other end of the bar—like he was hitting on me. And I would be lying if I said I didn't feel embarrassed. Maybe a little creeped out.

James took the drink and left before I could reject the offer. God knew what he'd been planning to do with it, but I was perplexed by his decision to just up and leave. He did say he'd be back, so I didn't linger on it for too long.

The two of us had managed to have our first good conversation since I found out he was back in Boston.

No arguing, no shitty remarks, just... sitting together, drinking, talking a little about what we'd been doing for the last few years.

He'd spent some time traveling. Los Angeles, Paris, New York, Tokyo... all of which I remembered from the photos he used to post. And when he hadn't been traveling, he'd been making music, having produced a few albums for some smaller artists and singles for others. I'd never really heard his name online—but a shameless little Google search filled me in on a lot.

James was beginning to make waves.

I found a lot of articles and interviews regarding his career so far, mostly things about recent projects and collaborations. He put out a song with a major artist, hardly a month before I even knew he was in Boston, which was beginning to look like his big break.

People were talking about him. I just had yet to hear any of his music.

With a new drink sitting before me, I'd been absent-mindlessly tapping my fingers on the counter to the beat of the music when someone's voice caught my attention.

"How's that vodka treating you?"

I watched Noah lean down onto the shiny counter next to me and gave him a small smile, raising the vodka soda in a half-hearted salute.

"Magically."

He chuckled at my answer.

Curious, I asked, "What are you doing here? I was surprised to see you."

Noah gave me a humored look and tilted his head. "I could ask you the same question. You uh... you brought your boyfriend?"

"No—god no," I quickly gestured. "James just wanted to talk. It's not like... that."

"But he whistles at you like you're a dog. Right." Noah gave me a firm nod. "You know, there's probably a joke in there somewhere."

I tried not to smile, I really did. "Noah."

"How'd your interview go?" He asked, changing the subject. The metal piercing on his tongue danced beneath all the coloured strobing. "With the college?"

The question made me bite the side of my cheek.

The vodka had helped get that situation off my mind—but I still hadn't been in the greatest mood after I met with the dean of admissions. Music was starting to feel like a curse... back in high school with James, and now with my college interviews.

"I'm not sure yet," I admitted, trying not to sound so disappointed. "I don't think it's going to work out."

Sympathy crossed Noah's expression.

"Damn. That sucks... I'm sorry," he comforted softly. "What did they say?"

"That I wasn't being considered me for a business major to begin with," I said with a quiet sigh. "But I guess they liked my extracurriculars. They offered me a scholarship to study music. I'm grateful for it, but..."

"It's not what you wanted," Noah nodded.

I shook my head.

"It's okay," he told me sincerely. "You're still waiting to hear from a few more colleges, so there's still hope, right? And you don't have to make a decision right away."

Noah's words helped me find a little sliver of optimism. The way he said it was so convincing, and I just couldn't help but trust in his words. Maybe he was right. Maybe things would be okay... for both of us.

I sucked in a breath and looked briefly to the dance floor, deciding to salvage whatever was left of the day. The vodka I'd been slinging back had given me a small dose of confidence, and I was ready to take advantage of it.

So before I could chicken out, I blurted out to my intimidating Stray Dog, "Do you wanna dance?"

I'd been dying to dance all night, but didn't have the nerve to go on my own. I didn't come to a club like this just to sit at the counter and drink alone. I hadn't been able to let go and just have fun lately, either. So if I wanted to dance... what was so wrong with that?

Noah's electric eyes sparkled with amusement as he fiddled with the few silver rings on his fingers.

"I can't dance," he confessed, shooting the idea down rather quickly.

I pressed my brows together and frowned.

"Can't or won't?"

Noah licked his lower lip, trying to hide the small smirk threatening his expression. "Let me rephrase," he said apologetically, "I don't know how to dance."

I sucked in a breath.

"Well... sling back a shot and come with me," I decided with tenacity, hopping off my barstool. "I'll teach you."

Noah chuckled slowly but shook his head. He didn't seem too willing to entertain my ideas.

"Sorry," he said, resolute on his decision. "I'll pass."