POV: Rosalind
Daniel kept his hand over mine on the counter longer than necessary—ten seconds, fifteen, long enough that the pressure turned from reassurance to something else. Control, maybe. Or anchor.
Then he removed it abruptly and turned to face the space where Marcus had been standing.
"I'll handle this," he said.
"Handle what? He left."
"He'll be back." Daniel moved behind the bar. Positioning himself between the door and where I stood. "In about five minutes. He's establishing pattern. Demonstrating that he can come and go as he pleases."
"How do you know?"
"Because that's what I would do."
The door opened again.
Marcus. Same pleasant smile. Same casual posture.
"Actually," he said, approaching the bar, "I think I will have that wine."
Daniel was already reaching for a bottle. Not from the display. He went to the temperature-controlled cabinet—the one where I kept reserves for private tastings—and pulled out a 2009 Châteauneuf-du-Pape that wasn't listed on the menu.
"This one," Daniel said. "I think you'll find it appropriate."
Marcus looked at the label. Something flickered in his expression.
"Generous," Marcus said.
"Necessary." Daniel poured with careful attention.
Marcus took the glass. Didn't smell it. Didn't swirl it. Just sipped slowly and watched Daniel instead of the room.
"What are your opening hours?" Marcus asked.
"Ten to nine. Tuesday through Saturday."
"And staff? How many work regular shifts?"
"Two during the day. Three on weekends." Daniel's voice was neutral. Professional.
"Busy neighborhood?"
"Moderate. Enough foot traffic to feel comfortable. Not so much that we lose the intimate atmosphere."
They were talking about security. About vulnerability. Marcus was cataloging exits and schedules while pretending to make small talk.
Marcus finished his wine. Set down the glass. "Excellent choice. What do I owe you?"
"It's complimentary. For a friend of the family."
"That's very kind." Marcus placed a hundred-dollar bill on the counter. "For the hospitality."
Then he left.
I waited thirty seconds. Locked the door. Flipped the sign to "Closed" even though it was only four-thirty.
"Why did you serve him personally?" I asked.
Daniel was cleaning the glass Marcus had used. "Because some people don't like being treated as guests. They want to be acknowledged as equals. Or threats. Treating him like a customer would have been insulting. Treating him like an old colleague kept things neutral."
"Is that what he is? An old colleague?"
"He's a witness. To decisions I made. To partnerships I ended. To the subsidiary acquisition that blocked the Hales." Daniel set down the glass. "And now he's here reminding me that witnesses can become testifiers if properly motivated."
"What does he want?"
"To demonstrate access. To show me he can reach you during business hours." Daniel moved from behind the bar. "How's Luca's workload? Is he managing the increased responsibility?"
The subject change was deliberate. Daniel shutting down conversation about Marcus by redirecting to something safer.
"He's managing," I said. "Though I think he's overwhelmed."
"Better overwhelmed than unprepared."
"Unprepared for what?"
Daniel didn't answer. Just checked the street through the window. "Close early today. Go home. I'll meet you there."
***
That night, I noticed the photos.
Daniel's home office had always been carefully curated—framed pictures on the wall documenting career milestones, business partnerships. I'd helped him arrange them years ago.
Now the wall was mostly bare.
Three photos remained. The rest were gone—not rearranged, gone. Leaving empty spaces and nail holes.
"Daniel?"
He looked up from his desk.
"What happened to the photos?"
"I moved them."
"Where?"
"Somewhere safer." He set down his pen. "They're in a drawer. Properly stored."
"Why?"
"Because having twenty years of business documentation on display creates unnecessary exposure." His voice was matter-of-fact. "If someone wanted to identify connections, map relationships—those photos provide a convenient reference guide."
I stared at the empty wall. At the spaces where photographs used to be.
Daniel was thinking about raids. About people coming into this house with warrants or weapons. About strangers cataloging his life.
"Are you expecting the police?" I asked quietly.
"I'm expecting uncertainty. Which means preparing for multiple scenarios." He stood. "The photos are safer in storage. That's all."
"That's not all."
"No." He kissed my forehead. "But it's all I can explain right now."
***
Later, I lay in bed listening to Daniel move through the house below—checking locks, testing windows, settling onto the couch.
But tonight was different. Tonight I heard him drag the couch slightly.
When I came downstairs later for water, I saw what he'd done.
He'd repositioned it. Away from the wall. Facing the door instead of the television. Giving himself clear sightlines to both entrances and the stairs.
He was sleeping facing the door. Like a soldier expecting breach.
I stood watching him sleep—this man who'd spent twenty-two years building an empire now preparing to defend it from siege. His face looked older. Worn.
His hand rested on his chest. Even unconscious, he was ready.
I went back upstairs. Lay in bed with my phone and Theo's addresses and the spare key. Waiting.
For Daniel to come home from a meeting that kept getting delayed.
For Marcus to return with questions that weren't questions.
For the moment when "we're out of time" stopped being warning and became reality.