Half an hour later, Irish and Markus are in the office with me. Markus leans against the wall, his hands clasped before him, his bald head wrinkling as he follows the conversation. Big, lovable simpleton. Irish sits in the chair opposite me, the same one Eden sat in a few hours ago. He strokes his scar absentmindedly, running his finger along the faded white zigzag.

 

Irish mutters, “Sorry, Boss, about talkin’ shit about how many women you bring back. Just banter.”

 

“It’s fine,” I grunt. I can’t let them see how much this woman has affected me. Especially when I don’t even know how she’s had this effect on me. Turning the leader of The Miseryed into an introspective teenager. Goddamn.

 

“I just thought she was another—”

 

“I said it’s fine,” I interrupt.

 

“She’s home safe,” Markus says quietly, and I can tell by the tone of his voice that he’s trying to cheer me up. Do I need cheering up?

 

“Good,” I say.

 

“Is she different?” Markus asks, in his oddly childlike way, simple and straight to the point. “To the others, I mean.”

 

“Why do you ask?”

 

He shrugs. “It just seems like you… I don’t know, it just seems like you liked her more. Or you knew her. Did you know her? Before today, I mean.”

 

“No,” I say, wondering at that myself. “I just met her earlier.”

 

“Wow,” Markus says, jaw dropping.

 

“Wow,” I agree.

 

“It won’t happen again, Boss,” Irish says. “I didn’t know she was your girl, you know? I just thought—”

 

“Goddammit, can we focus?” I snap, and Irish falls silent at once. I reach into one of the desk drawers and take out a blueprint. “This is the layout of the mansion,” I say, lowering my voice. Irish nods, swallowing his pride and leans across the table. Markus kicks away from the wall and lumbers over. “It’ll be a dinner party.”

 

“Next weekend,” Markus nods.

 

“Next weekend,” I confirm. “A dinner party with lots of Silicon Valley types.”

 

“Rich assholes?” Irish asks.

 

I chuckle. “Yeah, rich assholes.”

 

“So what’s the plan?”

 

“The host is Mason Abraham. Made his billions designing chips for computers. He’s one of the richest rich assholes in the Valley, now, if not the richest. And he’s a fussy prick. He doesn’t want the guests to have any idea that security exists. So some of us are going to attend the party—”

 

“Black tie?” Markus asks, raising his eyebrows.

 

“Black tie, yeah.” I nod. “We’ll have pieces inside our jackets, obviously. There’ll be around five or six of us actually in the party—the ones who can behave themselves.” I point to the main hall room on the blueprint. “The rest will be hidden in the basement, behind the wine rack.” I move my finger to the basement level, the small room secreted behind the rack. “I’ve been told he has a secret room there, a panic room. They’ll play cards, shoot the shit, whatever. And then if there’s trouble…”

 

“The men in suits get to fighting, and the men in the basement charge up to help.”

 

“Exactly,” I say. “But there shouldn’t be any trouble. You know what these sort of men are like. They get enough money, and they’re scared of their own shadows. All we have to do is show up and make sure that nothing goes wrong.”

 

“Easy money,” Irish grins.

 

“Easy money,” Markus laughs.

 

I nod. It will be easy money, ’cause there are always weak, scared men willing to pay men like us to take care of them. Weak crying children frightened of their own shadows, desperate for actual men to take control.

 

I tap the table. “Easy money,” I say. “But not so easy that we can get lazy. Irish, I want you down in the basement, overseeing the men. No drink. None at all. Play cards, talk, but keep it quiet. Your job is to make sure the men don’t do anything stupid or make too much noise. There’s a bonus in it for you if you can do a good job. Markus, I want you up top with me.”

 

“Really?” Markus grunts.

 

“Look at you,” I say. I point to his chest, which is as thick and round as a barrel, and then to his arms, which are monstrous-big. “You’re up top for the other guests. It’s not just stick-up artists we have to worry about. If some other guest starts getting big, most likely you’ll just have to wince at him, and he’ll shut up.”

 

“Yeah, yeah.” Markus’ lips twist. “It’s just… I can do the work, Boss. Fightin’, ridin’, all that. Even the boring stuff, like today. But when it comes to talking and parties and all that—”

 

Irish slaps Markus on the back. “You’ll do fine, big man, just nod along to what the rich pricks say.”

 

“You will be fine,” I tell Markus. “Alright, unless you have any questions, that’s it. I’ll tell you, Irish, who the basement crew is soon, so you can prep them. I’ll sort out the party crew.”

 

Irish stands up. “Sounds good to me.” He goes to the door and opens it. The sounds of the club filter into the room: laughing, cheering, the clinking of glasses. And then he closes the door, shutting the sound out.

 

Markus stands near the desk.

 

“Something wrong?” I ask.

 

He shakes his head. “I just wanted to say, Boss…” He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “If you want to take if further with this lady, I won’t judge you. I won’t think you’re soft.”

 

I smile up at the big lump. “Good to know, Markus. Good to know.”

 

He shuffles out of the office, and then I’m alone.

 

Eden. I wish you were here now.