Chapter 245 Racket.

Chapter 245: 245 Racket.

"Miles. Glad you could make the trip," Arman grunted, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble that sounded like grinding glass. He didn’t stand up.

He just gestured vaguely with a thick, glittering hand toward the heavy leather chair opposite his desk. "Take a seat before you wear out my carpet."

"Happy to," I said, walking into the room.

My magnetic senses radiated outward, sweeping the office in a rapid pulse. No hidden steel cages in the ceiling, no spring-loaded trapdoors under the rug.

Arman knew my powers inside and out. If he planned to clip me, he wouldn’t use metal. I doubted he would, though.

The words ’good person’ would choke on the air in this office, but Glint played it straight.

In the end, reputation was currency. Arman had a legendary reputation for brutality, but he wasn’t a backstabber. He looked you in the eye when he broke your jaw.

"Is there a specific reason you called me down here?" I asked, pulling the chair back and taking a seat.

"Looking a little twitchy there, kid," Arman noted, leaning back in his reinforced chair.

"Should I not be?"

Arman let out a harsh, barking laugh that sounded like rocks in a tumbler. "Relax. I ain’t looking for a war. We got an understanding, you and me. Matter of fact, my interest in you today is strictly on behalf of a mutual acquaintance."

Aw, fuck. I knew exactly what that meant. "Let me guess," I said flatly. "Legion."

Arman lifted a heavy, diamond-studded brow. "Word travels fast. Seems you two already rubbed elbows."

"He blew himself up in my boardroom," I said.

"Did he now? That’s a damn shame. Good thing you got out with your eyebrows intact."

"I bet you’re thrilled," I shot back. "What the hell are you doing taking contracts from a demon, Arman? That’s bad for business."

"Cash is cash, Miles. It all spends exactly the same. Something a guy in your racket should appreciate," Arman rumbled. He reached across the desk and popped open a polished humidor.

He pulled out a thick cigar, clipping the end with a silver cutter. "Besides, half my muscle listens to his podcast. That self-help garbage he peddles? Does wonders for locker-room morale."

"I bet it does," I muttered.

Arman lit the cigar with a heavy gold lighter. He took a long drag, the thick smoke swirling around the crystal facets of his face before he blew it out in a heavy gray cloud. "Yeah. Anyway. Our boy Legion hit me up to try and smooth over the bad blood between you two. And since I’m a generous guy, I figured I’d play the middleman."

"How much is he paying you for the introduction?"

Arman waved his cigar, leaving a trail of smoke in the dim air. "Don’t worry about my cut. Point is, you got your hands on something he wants. He’s offering a very fat finder’s fee if I broker the handover. Some demonic relic."

Figures it would be that. I let out a heavy sigh, rubbing my temples. "Look, Arman. I would love to hand it over. I really would. But I don’t have it."

Arman’s jaw set. The casual mobster vibe instantly hardened. He tilted his massive head, his glittering eyes boring directly into mine. "You telling me you don’t have it? Because that sounds like you’re holding out on me. Be real smart about your next sentence, kid. Where is it?"

"Nothing would make me happier than giving it to you," I told him, keeping my hands entirely visible on the desk. "But here’s the reality. It doesn’t exist."

Arman’s finger twitched. A clump of ash fell from his cigar into a crystal ashtray. "You destroyed it?"

"It never existed in the first place!" I yelled, throwing my hands up in exasperation. "It’s a fugazi! It’s a stage prop! There is no demonic artifact! It’s a block of high-density plastic that runs on double-A batteries! I had my tech girl build it for a gig to hype up The Jester’s runaway daughter.

"The script is simple—the prop looks like a doomsday device, I pretend to use it to summon a horde of hellspawn, the kid shows up, stops me, and bang! She breaks it. Problem solved, climax concluded, roll the fucking credits!"

I suddenly realized I had shot up out of my chair. I forced myself to sit back down, taking a deep breath to steady the heavy thudding in my chest. Calm down, Miles. Losing your cool in front of a mob boss is how people end up wearing cement shoes.

Arman stared at me across the desk. His expression was completely unreadable beneath the diamond plating. He gave his cigar a slow tap against the rim of the ashtray.

"I see," Arman grunted. He took another drag, the cherry burning bright orange. "So it’s a fake. Alright. But look at it this way—if you just hand the plastic over to me, I get my payout, and he gets off your back."

"Do you honestly think Legion is going to buy that it’s a fake?" I demanded, leaning forward. "No offense, Arman, but the guy is dumber than a sack of rocks."

"None taken."

"He is completely married to the idea that I possess ultimate arcane power. You really think he’s going to examine a chunk of resin and admit he made a mistake? Hell no! The second he realizes it doesn’t work, he’ll assume I gave him a decoy.

"He’ll come back and burn my house down just to make sure nobody finds out he got scammed. The guy isn’t just dangerous. He’s a functioning moron!"

Arman shrugged his massive shoulders. "Morons pay well. Hand it over, let him figure it out later. That ain’t my problem."

"It becomes your problem if I fail my contract," I shot back. "Arman, I would be tickled pink to dump this mess in your lap. But if you hand that cube over to him, he’s going to realize he got played, and he’ll come after me anyway. And worse? I still need the prop! It’s the centerpiece for my contract with The Jester’s kid.

"If I lose the MacGuffin before the final act, the whole production falls apart. And if I botch a fifty-million-dollar gig for a member of the Council of Nine, The Jester is going to put my head on a pike. And you know exactly how well the Council treats anyone who screws up their investments."

The low light from the window refracted through the deep frown forming on Arman’s crystal face.

"Yeah. The Council don’t play," Arman muttered. He chewed on the end of his cigar, his heavy brow furrowing as he ran the underworld math in his head. Messing with a freelance job was one thing; stepping on the toes of the New Order’s upper management was a fantastic way to get your entire operation permanently erased.

"A bad spot," Arman concluded, leaning forward heavily on his elbows. "Yeah, that’s a tough break, kid. A real shame." He paused, tapping a diamond finger against the wood. "I don’t suppose you got some other magical trinket lying around? Something real we can toss him to keep him happy?"

"Oh, sure," I said, my voice dripping with absolute, acidic sarcasm. "Let me just check the trunk of my car. I’ve been meaning to hit up the local occult pawn shop to grab a cursed monkey paw and a magic lamp, but I just haven’t had the time this week."

Arman leaned back in his oversized leather chair. He took one final, long drag of his cigar and exhaled slowly. The thick gray smoke swirled upward, catching the low light as he stared at it, like a mobster trying to read the future in the haze.

"Well," Arman grumbled, his gravelly voice dropping an octave. "That definitely complicates the racket."