The Moonlight Sonata stood exactly as we’d left it—still mostly vertical, still technically a building rather than a pile of architectural regret, still managing to project an aura of "condemned but charming" that would either attract adventurous clientele or repel anyone with functioning self-preservation instincts.
I paused at the entrance, half-expecting to find it ransacked, burned down, or possibly collapsed from structural fatigue during our absence, but no—the door was intact, the windows were unbroken, and everything seemed blessedly, impossibly fine.
"Well," I announced to the group, "it appears nobody has stolen our building while we were gone, which I’m choosing to interpret as a good omen rather than evidence that it’s so worthless even thieves won’t touch it."
We filed inside, the convoy flowing through the entrance like a river of mischief returning to its favorite bed, spilling into the lobby where dust motes twirled lazily in the pale shafts of artificial moonlight that slipped through the windows.
The air carried the nostalgic scent of aged timber and forgotten ambitions—old wood whispering secrets, older dreams lingering like perfume from a lover long gone.
I orchestrated the chaos with sweeping, theatrical gestures and instructions that were, perhaps, a touch too enthusiastic for the hushed space—directing crates here, nudging them there, arranging our glittering fortune into tidy rows that caught even the dimmest light and threw it back with shameless promise.
When the last crate settled onto the floor with a solid thunk, Julius erupted into genuine cheer—the kind that came from somewhere deep and honest.
"We did it!" he announced, his voice cracking slightly with emotion. "We actually did it! We managed to acquire ten thousand crowns! Do you understand what this means? We can actually make this work! We can renovate, attract clients, begin payments on Lloyd’s debt, and—and—"
His words failed him completely, enthusiasm overflowing his vocabulary like ale from an over-poured tankard, so he resorted to wild, sweeping gestures at the crates instead, as if the gleaming stacks could finish the sentence more eloquently than he ever could.
"This," he declared with theatrical gravitas, "is a cause for celebration!"
Without warning, he disappeared into the lounge and bar area—that sad little space with its grimy bottles and broken furniture—then emerged moments later carrying an armful of wine bottles that looked like they’d been sitting undisturbed since the founding of the city itself, their labels faded to illegibility and their glass coated in layers of dust thick enough to qualify as archaeological evidence.
I raised an eyebrow, eyeing the bottles with healthy skepticism. "How old are those, exactly?"
Julius examined one bottle with the careful attention of a scholar studying ancient texts, squinting at the label before giving up and shrugging with exaggerated nonchalance.
"Old enough to vote, probably. Maybe old enough to have voted in elections that decided the current political structure." He grinned. "But wine improves with age, right? That’s the whole point? So logically these should be amazing. Or poison. One of those two outcomes seems likely."
"Your commitment to optimism in the face of probable food poisoning is inspiring," I said dryly.
It wasn’t long before a party took shape in the lobby—impromptu and chaotic in the way that the best celebrations always were, fueled by relief, cheap wine, and the kind of giddy energy that comes from surviving against odds that should’ve crushed you.
Bottles were uncorked with varying degrees of triumph. Some corks surrendered with a jubilant pop, showering the nearest revelers in fizzy benediction, while others clung stubbornly until someone—impatient and grinning—simply smashed the neck against a crate and poured the wine anyway, glass be damned.
The vintage tasted of sharp vinegar and old, delicious regret, but no one minded in the slightest. It went down warm and willing, loosening tongues and memories alike.
I was approached by some of the new crew members I hadn’t properly met yet—men from Atticus and Dregan’s operation who’d volunteered to help us with the gold transport and were now committed to staying for the festivities.
They extended their pleasantries with the kind of deference that suggested Atticus had briefed them on who I was and what I’d accomplished, calling me "boss" in tones that ranged from respectful to slightly star-struck.
I shook hands, committing names to memory with the full intention of letting them slip away by dawn like secrets whispered in the dark. Small talk flowed—casual queries about the operation, the warehouse, the night’s haul—while my gaze drifted across the room, quietly cataloging how everyone else was handling their alcohol intake and general decision-making capabilities.
Nara and Willow had tangled themselves into some kind of drinking competition that involved elaborate rules I didn’t understand and increasing volumes of wine being poured directly into mouths without regard for things like "pacing" or "not dying from alcohol poisoning."
Willow, naturally, was winning—her throat working with elegant, practiced grace, emerald eyes gleaming with predatory delight each time Nara faltered.
The bunny girl’s ears had begun to droop in slow, dignified surrender, twitching with every swallow as though her body were drafting a formal letter of protest to her brain.
Felix had somehow sweet-talked Brutus into a hand game—some kind of pattern-matching exercise that required quick reflexes and spatial awareness—which seemed profoundly unfair given that Brutus only had one arm and Felix was exploiting this advantage to his full potential.
Every slap, every feint, every impossible double-tap was executed with the bright-eyed ruthlessness of someone who knew exactly how bigoted this was and found it absolutely hilarious.
The cheeky little bastard was grinning wide and unrepentant while Brutus glowered with the solemn intensity of a storm cloud being repeatedly poked by a very smug ray of sunshine, yet the corners of his mouth kept twitching—tiny, traitorous hints of amusement he clearly resented giving away.
Grisha was conspicuously absent, though the suspicious sounds echoing from the basement—rhythmic thumping, creative profanity, and what sounded like furniture being stressed beyond its design specifications—suggested she’d found someone willing to help work off her excess energy through methods that were enthusiastically athletic, profoundly unprofessional, and almost certainly violating several structural integrity codes.
Then I spotted Julius on the balcony above, a solitary silhouette framed by the fractured moonlight spilling through the theater’s wounded ceiling. His shoulders were loose, easy with the night’s victory, but his head tilted in that quiet, almost thoughtful way that spoke of a mind still turning over the edges of everything we’d won—and everything it might cost.
He looked like he could use company that hadn’t yet declared war on sobriety.
And so I climbed the stairs with deliberate steps, boots creaking against wood that had clearly decided relative stability was more suggestion than rule, yet stubbornly refused to collapse under the weight of our dreams.
"We’re actually going to do this," Julius said quietly, keeping his eyes fixed on the party below. "Aren’t we? We’re going to turn this place into something real."
"We’re certainly going to try," I replied, settling against the railing beside him and letting my own gaze drift across the scene. "Whether we succeed or fail spectacularly in ways that become cautionary tales told to future generations of entrepreneurs remains to be seen, but yes—we’re committed now. No backing out. We’ve got ten thousand crowns, a nigh impossible deadline, and enough collective insanity to possibly pull this off."
"I’m terrified," Julius admitted with the kind of honest vulnerability that alcohol sometimes liberated from people who usually kept it locked away. "But also more excited than I’ve been in years. Does that make sense? Being scared and thrilled simultaneously? Like standing at the edge of a cliff and knowing you’re about to jump but not knowing if you’ll fly or fall?"
"Makes perfect sense," I assured him. "That’s basically been my entire life since escaping the prison. Just one long series of cliff-jumping exercises where the ground keeps getting further away before I hit the bottom. Eventually the universe will correct this oversight, but until then, I’m enjoying the view."
Julius laughed—soft and genuine—then took another sip of his terrible wine. "To impossible odds," he said, raising his glass.
"To stupid decisions that somehow work out," I added, clinking my own glass against his.
We stood there in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the chaos unfold below—Nara and Willow’s drinking competition had evolved into some kind of dance-off that neither of them was winning, Felix had apparently schooled Brutus on the actual rules of his hand game and was now losing spectacularly, and the sounds from the basement had taken on a rhythmic quality that suggested Grisha had found her stride.
I let out a soft sigh, the sound half-exasperated, half-content, as I took in the glorious absurdity of my current life. This was my crew, this was my plan, this was the hill I’d chosen to die on, conquer, or—more likely—redecorate into something scandalously profitable.
"My grandfather would be proud," Julius said quietly, his voice carrying an odd weight that made me glance at him. "To see all this shaping out. The life returning to this place."
I raised an eyebrow, something in his tone catching my attention. "Your grandfather? What does he have to do with a failing brothel in the slums?"
Julius blinked, surprise flickering across his features. "Gods, I didn’t tell you, did I?" He paused, seeming to weigh whether to continue. "My grandfather was the one who—"
Knocking.
Sharp. Deliberate. Three heavy strikes against the front door that cut through the ambient noise of the party.
The entire lobby froze in that instant—conversations dying mid-sentence, laughter halting to an abrupt stop, everyone’s heads swiveling toward the entrance with synchronized precision.
My face went wide with realization then, excitement flooding through my veins and chasing away the wine-induced warmth with something sharper, more electric.
That had to be it. Our first client. Someone had actually come. Someone had heard about us—through some network, through rumors, through whatever mysterious channels brought people to brothels in the slums—and decided we were worth visiting.
Julius moved before I could finish the thought, his theatrical instincts flaring to life like a curtain rising on opening night. He swept toward the stairs with fluid, eager grace—the poised urgency of an actor who’d been waiting in the wings long enough and now sensed the stage calling his name.
"I’ll get it!" he called back, his voice pitched high with giddy glee.
He descended the stairs with more speed than grace, nearly tripping on the final step but catching himself with his acrobatic reflexes, crossing the lobby to the entrance with his arms already spreading in welcome, his face arranged into the most charming smile his features could produce.
The door swung open on hinges that creaked with rust and neglect. Just then, Julius, ever the showman, drew breath for what promised to be a lavish, theatrical greeting—one of those flowing, silver-tongued welcomes he’d no doubt rehearsed in his mirror since the first day he’d dreamed of owning this place, complete with sweeping bows and enough flourish to make a duke feel underdressed.
"Welcome to the Moonlight Sonata! We’re absolutely delighted to—"
His voice trailed off.
Slowly, like air leaking from a balloon punctured by reality’s cruel pin. He took a step back. Then another. His wine glass, still clutched in one hand, began to tremble.
Then it dropped.
The sound of shattering glass echoed through the lobby like a gunshot in a cathedral, shards scattering across the floor in patterns that caught the artificial moonlight and threw it back in broken fragments.
Julius stood frozen at the threshold, the grand, theatrical welcome dying unborn on his lips. Every trace of color had drained from his face, leaving him pale as old parchment, eyes wide with a raw, unguarded mixture of terror and disbelief—as though the universe had just played a cruel joke he’d spent years praying would never be told.
From my position on the balcony, I couldn’t see who—or what—stood in the doorway. But based on Julius’s reaction, I had the sinking feeling that our first visitor wasn’t a client after all.