Deep in my gut, beneath the bravado and the adrenaline-fueled confidence, I knew he was right.
Killing a representative of the Pantheon would paint a target on my back so enormous it might as well have come with its own constellation. The kind of decision that invited retribution on a scale no amount of clever maneuvering, improvised heroics, or flashy magic could reliably outpace.
I understood that. Completely. Intellectually. In the same way one understands that stepping off a cliff is ill-advised even before gravity begins making its case.
But acknowledging that truth out loud would’ve undercut the strategy I was currently running, and I’d put far too much effort into the performance to ruin it with honesty now. So instead, I continued on with my show of bold proclamations and unwavering certainty.
"Then it’s fortunate for both of us that I have no intention of killing you unless you force my hand," I said with exaggerated cheerfulness. "I’m actually quite fond of not having professional assassins hunting me across the underground. It interferes with my busy schedule of causing chaos and disappointing people who expect competent decision-making. So as long as you don’t threaten me, and as long as you’re willing to be reasonable about Lloyd’s situation, we can all walk away from this evening with our lives and reputations mostly intact."
Silas didn’t answer right away.
He paused, the silence stretching just long enough to remind everyone present that he was the sort of man who weaponized patience.
Then he smiled.
"I like you," he said finally. "You’ve got a spine. Possibly more spine than brain, but a spine nonetheless." Then his expression shifted back to something serious. "I respect your tenacity for trying to protect Lloyd here, but you should know that I can’t just let him off the hook. Business is business, debts are debts, and those debts need to be repaid one way or another. And because gold clearly isn’t forthcoming, blood remains the only option."
The violence in his words were delivered with such casual matter-of-factness that it somehow landed harder than if he’d shouted them.
I recognized the grudge for what it was—not just about money, but about pride, about principle, about maintaining the kind of reputation that kept people afraid enough to honor their commitments.
This wasn’t personal between Silas and Lloyd; it was business conducted with the understanding that mercy was weakness and weakness was death in their particular corner of society.
I thought on that for a long moment before making my move, the pieces clicking together in my head with satisfying precision.
"Here’s a thought," I said, my mind racing through possibilities. "What if Lloyd worked under us for a set amount of time?" He clearly has skills—estate development, design, networking with the exact clientele that would benefit a new brothel trying to establish itself. We’ll employ him, pay him for his services at a rate that’s generous but not exploitative, and by the end of the agreed period he should have earned enough to repay at least a significant portion of the debt. Maybe not all of it, but enough to demonstrate good faith, enough to show he’s making genuine efforts rather than running from his obligations."
I pressed my advantage while he deliberated.
"Think about it from a business perspective," I continued, using his own framing against him. "Killing Lloyd gets you nothing except satisfaction, which admittedly feels great in the moment but doesn’t pay bills or recover investments. But letting him work? That’s revenue generation. That’s turning a bad debt into an eventual asset. You said it yourself—you’re a businessman first and foremost. Would a businessman choose momentary satisfaction over long-term profit?"
I paused, then added with calculated sincerity, "Plus, letting go of the grudge means you don’t have to waste resources hunting him down, don’t have to deal with whatever legal complications arise from creative dismemberment, and on top of that, you get to look magnanimous in front of this crowd. It’s a win-win situation really"
Silas stared at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable, his artificial eye pulsing with that steady rhythm while his other tracked across my face with surgical precision, searching for signs of deception or any hidden angles.
Then, at last, he nodded. The motion was slow, almost reluctant, but undeniably real.
"Fine," he said finally, the word coming out with surprising ease. "I’ll accept your proposition. It’s... actually quite reasonable when you frame it that way." He straightened his posture, brushing imaginary dust off his tuxedo. "Which brothel did you say you hail from? I want to know where to send my accountants when it comes time to verify payment."
"The Moonlight Sonata," I said clearly, watching his reaction carefully.
Silas stared for a beat—long enough to be uncomfortable even by my standards—before suddenly erupting into laughter.
Not polite chuckles or restrained amusement. Full, uncontrolled, medically inadvisable laughter that wracked his entire body from head to toe.
He bent at the waist slightly, one hand braced on his knee while the other clutched at his chest, tears streaking from his good eye even as the replacement one pulsed in erratic rhythm.
"The Moonlight—" he gasped between coughs, "—my grandfather used to visit that place! Back when the slums were still—when it was—" More coughing. "Saints alive, I thought that dump had been reduced to a pile of rubbish years ago!"
"That’s not far off in description," I admitted with cheerful honesty. "Though we prefer ’charming fixer-upper with character’ over ’dump.’ Marketing, you understand."
Silas finally got his coughing under control, straightening up with effort while still chuckling occasionally.
"Do you really," he said with obvious skepticism, "genuinely believe you can turn that place into a success big enough to not only sustain itself but also pay off another man’s debt? You realize how insane that sounds, yes? How statistically improbable?"
I met his gaze without flinching, channeling every ounce of confidence I didn’t actually feel into my voice and posture.
"Just watch me."
The words came out steady, certain, backed by nothing but audacity and a deeply unhealthy relationship with impossible odds.
Silas studied me for a long moment, before a slow smile crept across his features, unhurried and sharp, like a knife remembering what it was made for.
"Alright," he said, extending his hand toward me. "I’ll take you up on that proposition. Lloyd works for you, helps make your establishment profitable, and the payments come to me. But—" his grip tightened as I shook his hand, "—if he fails to repay his debts in the span of... lets say... one month, starting today, he repays everything he owes in blood. And I do mean everything. Fingers, toes, organs, whatever I feel adequately compensates for my loss."
One month.
Thirty days to somehow transform a failing theater-brothel with zero clients into something profitable enough to generate over two hundred thousand crowns.
It was completely insane. Utterly impossible. The sort of deadline that made rational people laugh, politely excuse themselves, and flee the room before the paperwork dried—preferably in a direction that didn’t involve creditors with an artisanal appreciation for dismemberment.
"Deal," I said, shaking his hand firmly.
Silas’s smile widened into something genuinely pleased, like I’d just given him exactly what he wanted even though I’d thought I was negotiating myself into a better position. He released my hand and turned toward his two bodyguards, who were still groaning on the floor in various states of cum-stained defeat.
Then he whistled, sharp and piercing.
In that instant, both men began the painful process of standing despite their obvious discomfort, every movement accompanied by tight jaws and micro-pauses that strongly implied sitting down was now a forbidden luxury for the foreseeable future.
They limped toward him, their once-pristine white trousers now decorated with stains that would require either professional cleaning, ritual purification, or simply being burned in a quiet alley while everyone agreed never to speak of them again.
The three of them headed toward the stairs, Silas leading the way with effortless confidence while his guards followed behind like ducklings who’d survived a traumatic, deeply confusing, and aggressively sexual encounter with reality.
Willow stepped aside to let them pass, pressing herself against the wall with exaggerated looks of composure while clearly fighting a losing battle against laughter.
She failed spectacularly—her shoulders shaking, lips pressed tight, eyes shining with the kind of mirth that could only come from watching someone else suffer consequences you didn’t have to share.
As they reached the top of the stairs, Silas paused. Then he lifted one hand and waved without bothering to look back, the gesture casual enough to be insulting, his voice carrying across the room with an ease that made the threat embedded within it feel almost conversational.
"I’ll be watching. Very closely. Don’t disappoint me."
Then they were gone, vanishing down the stairs like bad memories being politely escorted from the premises, and the tension that had been holding the room hostage evaporated in a single, satisfying exhale.
I turned back to Lloyd, who’d collapsed to his knees at some point during the negotiations and was now openly crying—tears carving messy, determined tracks down his face, shoulders heaving with sobs that were equal parts emotional breakdown, relief, and the accumulated stress of surviving an evening that could have been classified as a natural disaster.
He bowed low, pressing his forehead to the floor in a gesture of such profound gratitude it was almost embarrassing to witness. "Thank you," he gasped between sobs. "Thank you, thank you, thank you—you saved my life, you saved me from—I can never repay—"
"Don’t sweat it," I interrupted, "Seriously. Get up. You look pathetic down there and it’s making everyone uncomfortable." I reached down and hauled him to his feet with more force than strictly necessary.
Lloyd swiped at his face with the back of his hand, effectively redistributing tears and snot in ways that were emphatically unattractive.
"Anything," he said with the fervor of someone who’d just been saved from creative dismemberment. "I’ll do anything. Whatever you need. Design, renovation, project management, I’ll—"
"Great," I cut him off again, "Right now what I need is for you to follow me. It’s time to meet the others—your new coworkers, my crew, the people you’ll be working with from now on." I started walking toward where Willow was still guarding the stairs, then paused to look back. "Coming? Or do you need another minute to cry on the floor? No judgment, it’s been an emotional evening."
Lloyd scrambled after me, nearly tripping over scattered coins in his haste.
Behind us, the nobles began cautiously returning to their previous activities, their whispered conversations already turning tonight’s events into the kind of gossip that would spread through the city like wildfire.
I paused at the threshold, glancing back at Willow before dropping my voice to a whisper that carried just far enough for her to hear over the ambient noise of nobles trying to pretend they hadn’t just witnessed several felonies.
"Do me a favor," I murmured, "and make sure none of what happened here tonight becomes public knowledge. Use whatever methods you deem appropriate—seduction, threats, memory-altering magic if that’s even a thing, interpretive dance that somehow convinces them keeping quiet is in their best interest. I trust your judgment. Just make sure those nobles understand that discretion isn’t optional, it’s mandatory, and the consequences for failing to maintain it are significantly worse than whatever embarrassment they’d face from admitting they were too scared to report what they saw."
Willow’s grin widened, sharp and knowing. "Consider it handled," she purred, already pivoting back toward the room.
As I descended the stairs, I couldn’t help but reflect that I’d either just made the smartest decision of my life or signed all our death warrants with a flourish.
Honestly, it was basically a coin flip at this point.
But hey, at least it wouldn’t be boring.