Dao

The notification vibrates against my thigh through worn denim. I'm sitting in a coffee shop three blocks from Kavinsky's Astoria office, laptop open to shell company filings, when I see your message. Profile says finance, which could mean anything. The jawline in your photo suggests gym membership and disposable income. White. That's... complicated.

I shouldn't respond. I have surveillance footage to review, bank records to cross-reference, a housing authority meeting to crash tomorrow morning. But my thumb hovers over the keyboard anyway, and I hate that I notice the way your collar sits against your throat in the second photo, the suggestion of breadth in your shoulders.

Just coffee. One hour. Operational security dictates knowing who's in my digital radius anyway.

That's the lie I tell myself as I type back a terse confirmation for tomorrow, 6 PM, the Vietnamese place in Flushing where I can sit with my back to the wall. I screenshot your profile before the guilt sets in, run a reverse image search out of habit. Nothing suspicious surfaces, but my stomach twists anyway because I know what this is. My body making decisions my mind hasn't authorized.

I close Wintr and return to the spreadsheet, but the numbers blur. Tomorrow I'll wear the black jeans without the rip in the knee, maybe let my hair down instead of the usual braid. Then I'll show up fifteen minutes early to check exits and sightlines, because discipline doesn't disappear just because some part of me I don't trust wants to see if you smell the way I imagine you might.

The coffee goes cold while I stare at your profile picture one more time before forcing the phone facedown on the table.

I arrive twelve minutes early and immediately regret the venue choice. Too many mirrors, too much exposed floorplan, only one exit that doesn't route through the kitchen. The host seats me at a corner booth anyway after I slip him a twenty and specify which table. I sit facing the door, note the emergency exit behind the bar, and try not to fidget with the cloth napkin.

My hair hangs loose past my shoulders for once, still damp from the shower I took in my studio apartment after spending six hours tailing one of Kavinsky's collectors. The blouse is thrifted silk, dark gray, probably someone's bridesmaid outfit from 2019. It's the nicest thing I own that isn't surveillance equipment. I feel exposed without my hoodie, without the armor of looking forgettable.

When you walk in, my breath catches in a way that pisses me off immediately. You're taller than I estimated from your photos, and there's a confidence in how you move through space that triggers something I've spent months trying to ignore. White button-down, dark slacks, watch that probably costs more than my rent. The host gestures toward the table and you lock eyes with me across the restaurant.

I don't smile. My hands rest flat on the table, fingers spread, grounding myself against the impulse to smooth my hair or look away. You're exactly the kind of man I should be investigating, not having dinner with. Exactly the kind of presence that makes my carefully constructed discipline start developing fissures I can't afford.

You're walking toward me now, and I catalog details automatically: gait suggests athletic build, no wedding ring, cologne detectable from six feet away and making my pulse accelerate in a way that feels like betrayal. I stand because sitting feels too vulnerable, extending my hand for a handshake that will tell me if your palm is calloused or soft, if you squeeze too hard or know how to modulate pressure.

"You're punctual," I say, voice flat, professional. Giving away nothing about the fact that I've been sitting here for twelve minutes trying to convince myself this isn't a catastrophic lapse in judgment.

I'm pulling my jeans back on when I see it.

Just a business card, half-tucked under a stack of magazines on your coffee table. Cyrillic lettering catches my eye first, then the logo. I know that logo. I've been staring at variations of it for three months, tracing shell companies and offshore accounts back to a warehouse in Brighton Beach.

Kavinsky Developments.

My hands stop moving. The denim bunches at my thighs while my brain recalculates every detail of the last two hours. The upscale apartment. The watch. The way you deflected when I asked what you did in finance. Not evasive enough to trigger alarms. Just... careful.

I pick up the card. Your name is printed below Viktor Kavinsky's in smaller font. Director of Acquisitions.

"That's not what I think it is." My voice comes out flat, clinical. I'm still half-dressed, but my fingers have already curled around the card like evidence. I turn to face you, and everything about my posture has changed. Shoulders back. Weight centered. The woman who was in your bed five minutes ago is gone.

You're standing in the kitchen doorway, and I watch your expression shift as you realize what I'm holding.

"You're going to tell me exactly what your relationship is with Viktor Kavinsky," I say.