The night I found my brother’s killer, I was carrying a three-thousand-dollar bottle of whisky on a silver tray.

Three weeks later, the Crimson Lounge reopened its doors to a packed house in the West Loop.

The air still smelled of luxury—expensive tobacco, crushed mint, and smoked orange rind—but the underlying metallic hum of fear and corruption was completely gone. The exposed brick walls had been cleaned, the velvet banquettes reupholstered, and the mahogany bar polished to a mirror shine that reflected the amber lights overhead like a warm, welcoming sky.

Behind the bar, I tied my black apron around my waist, smoothing the fabric with a calm, deliberate motion. My hands didn't shake.

“Sof,” a familiar voice called out as Ryan Mitchell’s replacement—a cheerful college student named Maya—slid an empty tray across the counter. “Table four needs a three-thousand-dollar bottle of Macallan M. Can you handle the royal treatment?”

I laughed, reaching effortlessly for the crystal decanter without missing a beat. “Tell table four their whiskey is in good hands.”

The club was humming with life, the ambient bass vibrating through the floorboards like a steady, peaceful heartbeat. I poured the amber liquid with absolute precision, garnished the glass with a twist of fresh lemon peel, and looked up as the heavy front doors swung open.

Julian Vance walked in.

He wasn't wearing his usual tactical dark suit or hiding behind the tinted glass of the VIP mezzanine. He wore an open-collared charcoal shirt, the silver wings at his temples catching the warm light of the entrance. He didn't head for the private elevator. Instead, he walked straight up to the mahogany bar, pulled out a high stool, and sat down directly in front of me.

The other patrons around us murmured quietly, recognizing the man who commanded the city, but Julian didn't pay them any mind. His dark eyes were fixed entirely on me.

“Evening, bartender,” Julian said, a low, smooth baritone that carried a hint of amusement. “I hear the service here is exceptional.”

I set the crystal bottle down on the polished wood, leaning my forearms against the bar, a genuine smile breaking across my face.

“Depends on who’s ordering, Mr. Vance,” I replied, my voice light and steady. “What can I get you?”

“Surprise me,” Julian said, resting his chin on his hand. “Just make sure it has a clean finish.”

I reached for the bourbon, the ice tongs, and a clean glass, moving with the rhythmic, practiced grace of someone who no longer needed to hide in the shadows. My diary was locked safely in my apartment drawer, its final page written, its secrets put to rest.