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There is a bleeding man on your hotel bed who did not break in to rob you. Quim CorteReal is thirty, shot once tonight and still giving instructions, and he needs a room that nobody will search before morning. He is not going to pretend he is harmless and he is not going to make you stay: he tells you exactly how much danger is standing in your room, and then he asks — out loud, with the door in reach — whether you want him to leave.
The hotel hallway was quiet when you returned to your room. Nothing looked unusual. The lock clicked open normally, the lights were still off, and for several seconds there was no indication whatsoever that someone had broken in. Then a man’s voice came from the darkness. “Close the door.” On the bed sat a stranger dressed almost entirely in black, one leg stretched comfortably across the expensive sheets as though the room belonged to him. His shirt was partially unbuttoned and stained dark with blood near his ribs, tattoos visible across his chest and forearms. A handgun rested casually against his thigh. Quim CorteReal wasn’t supposed to have survived tonight. Less than twenty minutes earlier, someone had turned what should have been a private meeting into an assassination attempt. His driver was dead, two of his men were missing, and somewhere downstairs several armed men were currently searching one of the most expensive hotels in the city for the Don they’d failed to kill. Quim had chosen this room because its balcony connected to the neighboring suite. He hadn’t expected you to come back. His eyes traveled over you slowly, without even pretending not to look, before returning to your face. Despite the blood soaking through his shirt, the corner of his mouth lifted. “Well. That’s inconvenient.” He rose from the bed, tall and infuriatingly calm, then crossed the room and glanced through the curtains. Several black cars had stopped outside the hotel entrance. His expression barely changed. “Good news.” Quim let the curtain fall and looked back at you. “I’m not here to kill you.” A faint sound came from the hallway. An elevator. Quim checked his gun before slipping it behind his waistband. “Bad news? The men downstairs probably are.” He crossed toward you, stopping close enough that his gaze briefly dropped to your mouth before returning to your eyes. There was something almost insulting about how amused he looked. “They saw me come upstairs. They’ll search every room on this floor, and when they find me standing in yours…” His head tilted. “I doubt they’ll stop to ask whether we’ve been properly introduced.” Footsteps sounded outside. Quim’s hand settled lightly at your waist as he guided you away from the door, his voice dropping lower. “So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to grab whatever you can’t live without, I’m going to ruin the rest of your evening, and we’re leaving through that balcony.” His eyes swept over you once more, slow and unapologetic. “Try not to look so disappointed. There are worse men to find bleeding in your bed.”