The private lounge stayed quiet. Glass clinked against glass. Cigar smoke coiled through the air, drifting beneath the dim chandelier. Heavy curtains blocked the city's noise. Only the four men remained, seated in a circle, plotting in the silence between their words.

  Clavius leaned forward. He rested his elbows on his knees and steepled his fingers. His sharp eyes swept the room. He measured each of his companions.

  "We need to be smart about this," he said, voice cool, deliberate. "Mr. Rofford’s daughter didn’t just vanish—someone made her disappear. That means someone out there knows where she is."

  Dante, perched in his usual corner like a shadow given form, nodded slightly. His expression betrayed nothing.

  "Any leads?" he asked, his voice barely above a murmur.

  Clavius exhaled slowly. "Not yet. But we start the way we always do—pull the strings until something snaps."

  Across from him, Conan swirled a glass of brandy, watching the amber liquid catch the light. His long coat draped over his chair, one of his gloved hands idly tapping against the armrest. A cat—some sleek, well-groomed thing with golden fur—curled up beside him, purring.

  "Kidnapping isn’t a common business these days," Conan mused. "If they wanted ransom, we’d have heard something by now. If they wanted revenge, there’d be a body."

  "Maybe they just want her out of the picture," Alistair offered, stretching his arms over the back of his chair. "I mean, sure, maybe she’s dead. Maybe she’s tied up in some basement. Either way, someone went to a lot of trouble to make her disappear clean."

  "You always this cheerful, cowboy?" Conan smirked, raising an eyebrow.

  Alistair grinned, tipping his hat back. "Just sayin’. I like to keep my expectations realistic."

  "That’s funny, coming from a man who thinks magic tricks and mind-reading are real." Conan’s smirk widened. "What was it last time? A book about ancient Lumerian curses?"

  "History is important," Alistair shot back. "Unlike whatever book you’ve been readin’ to convince yourself you’re a damn cat whisperer."

  The golden-furred cat in Conan’s lap flicked its tail. Conan scratched behind its ear.

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  "I don’t need a book, cowboy," he said smoothly. "I was born special."

  Alistair scoffed. "Sure you were."

  "Enough."

  Clavius’ voice cut clean through the air, silencing both men instantly. His gaze, cold and unwavering, settled between them.

  "We’re not here to debate history or animal behavior." He leaned back, folding his arms. "We’re here because Rofford’s daughter is missing, and we’re the only ones who can find her before she disappears for good."

  Dante, silent until now, turned to Clavius.

  "Where do we start?"

  Clavius glanced at him. "Dante, you’ll do what you do best. I want every piece of digital evidence—bank records, messages, hidden transactions. If someone got close enough to take her, they left a trace somewhere."

  Dante gave a small nod. "Understood."

  "Alistair, I need you in the streets. We shake the right people and see who talks. Start with the docks—Rofford’s enemies move their filth through there."

  Alistair cracked his knuckles. "Can’t wait."

  "And Conan," Clavius turned his attention to the gambler, "your little spies—cats, informants, whatever you want to call them—spread the word. Someone must have seen something."

  Conan smiled, swirling his drink again. "Oh, they’ll talk."

  Clavius let the moment settle before standing. His presence alone commanded their attention.

  "This isn’t just another job," he said. "This is family. We don’t stop until we have her back."

  No one argued.

  The plan was in motion.

  The night wore on. Neon lights glowed along rain-soaked streets. The four men left the restaurant and out into the cold of night. They didn't take their leave. They exchanged short nods and vanished into the city. Each man went his separate way.

  Dante went by himself. His hands stayed in his coat pockets. His breath clouded in the air like smoke. He wandered through the streets like a ghost. No eyes watched him. No ears heard him. A quiet hotel sat at the edge of the city. Its vacancy sign buzzed in the night. He paid in cash. He took the key without speaking. He climbed the stairs to his room. Inside, he locked the door. He set his laptop on the desk. He leaned on the window. The city pulsed below. A web of secrets was there to be unwound.

  Alistair and Clavius walked with purpose. Their steps echoed down empty streets. They moved side by side. The weight of the night pressed between them. The docks rose ahead. Wooden piers stretched into black water. Ships creaked in their moorings. The scent of salt and oil filled the air. A few men loitered near the cargo crates. Shadows shifted under dim security lights. Alistair and Clavius stopped at the edge of the pier. They watched. They waited. The job had begun.

  Conan took another path. He moved through the tangled veins of the city's alleys. He slipped between rusted fire escapes and crumbling brick walls. He moved like a man who belonged in the shadows. The alley ahead glowed under a distant streetlamp. Silent figures stirred within it. Cats lounged atop garbage cans. They prowled through the darkness or watched with knowing eyes. Conan crouched low. His voice came as a soft murmur.

  “I have a job for you.”

  The cats listened.