I shuffle the cards. Once. Then again. My thumb glides along the edge with a gentle flick.
One card.
The Emperor. Reversed.
I hold it up and look at it.
A broken throne. Torn robes. A crown tilted as if about to fall off. The man on the card still tries to appear in control, but you can see the cracks. His face looks more worn than wise. The whole image feels like rot wearing armor.
Figures.
I stare at that fractured throne—and at the latch on the back door.
A broken ruler means fractured defenses.
I rise, cross to the storeroom, and double-check the deadbolt. Then, I reset the alarm code on the keypad—no more surprises from below.
“Alfeo wants to take over,” I say out loud. “Tiziano wants to pull the strings.”
I slap the edge of the card against the ledger—hard. It makes a sharp sound on the wood.
“They both want something—this bar, my name, control.”
The thought makes my skin itch.
“They want me quiet. They want me in line.”
I hit the card against the table again. The corner folds. I don’t care.
“They’re not getting it.”
I grind the cigarette out on the floor, next to the ashes of the one before. The smoke curls up and away like it’s trying to get out of here.
It can’t.
Neither can they.
I reach for the machete.
The blade pulls out of the crate with a sound like breaking ribs. Wood cracks. The nails screech. It comes loose with bits of cork and glass still stuck to it.
It’s heavier than it looks.
Or maybe I’m just exhausted.
I run a finger along the flat side of the blade. There’s a gouge near the grip, a dent. Something from a fight I wasn’t in.
Even steel holds onto what it’s been through.
That’s fine.
I lift the ledger with my other hand. It doesn’t shift now. The pages stay closed, the binding tight. Like it knows it’s about to be locked away.
I walk to the back corner. The padlocked steel crate’s hidden behind some old inventory and a stack of expensive bourbon I never bother selling. I move the bottles, pull the false panel aside.
The ledger goes in.
I close the lid and snap the lock.