Page 33 of Make Them Bleed
Someone stops her, and I turn to see who.
“Juno, it’s been so long. How are you?” Etta Hoy’s voice is paper-thin. She doesn’t care how Juno’s doing.
Etta’s an influencer. She’s all big money and low views. However, she acts like she has fifty million followers, not fifty thousand.
“Etta, long time,” Juno smiles like they’re old friends.
“Fancy seeing you here.” She quirks a brow, and then glances my way. She takes in my mask and huffs out a short laugh. “I knew you always liked older men like your sister.”
At the mention of her sister, Juno stiffens beside me.
“Steady,” I murmur.
“Trying,” she says, and the word trembles.
Etta doesn’t notice Juno’s posture has inflated since she’s walked over. She’s too busy waving to other friends, and then she slowly drags her attention back to Juno. “I’d love to interview about… you know.”
My jaw tenses. But Juno’s a pro.
“Sure thing. I’ll DM you next week.” I can tell by the tremor in Juno’s voice that she has zero plans to message Etta. However Etta finds this answer acceptable and leans in for a quick hug, and then she’s off like she was never here.
“You okay?” I ask her.
She nods, once. “I’m fine.”
We orbit the room. Snippets of conversation drift:
“…we don’t need another compliance audit…”
“…the creator skew was worth the spend…”
“…Gracewood will eat the PR hit…”
“…five payments—no, that’s not what I said…”
Juno goes stiff at that last one. I turn. Two men in their forties—one in a cobalt suit, the other in black-on-black—stand half in shadow by a glowing art wall. Cobalt checks his phone and hisses, “I said re-bundle the five payments, notre-sendthe five payments. Do you speak English?”
My blood chills. I angle us closer, pretending to admire the art. Black-on-black lifts a hand, calming. “Relax, Valentino. We’ll consolidate through the shell like we used to. Benton’s too busy glad-handing streamers to notice.”
Valentino. Cobalt. I drill the name into my brain. Juno’s fingers find my hoodie cuff and tug. We both strain to hear more. Black-on-black lowers his voice. “Gracewood’s pushing for a Q2 clean slate. We just need to keep the loud ones quiet until then.”
“The loud ones,” Valentino sneers, “have funerals, apparently.”
Juno’s breath hitches with such violence I think she’ll lunge. I step in, my body a wall, and feel her entire frame shake. The mask lets me keep my voice steady even as fury shakes my bones.
“Not here,” I say in her ear. “Not now.”
She swallows, nods so subtly an outsider would miss it. I ease us away, call quietly into the channel, “Cobalt suit: ‘Valentino.’ Black-on-black: unknown. Fillmore?”
“Got them,” Render whispers. “Zoomed and tagged. Following their orbits.”
“Arthur?” It’s hard to remember who is who, and wish I could just shout out, Ozzy, but can’t let Juno know real names.
“Already flirting with their handler,” Ozzy says through Arthur’s mustache. “She loves my ‘brand story.’”
Gage crackles on comms. “Security’s tightening at the east exit. Ten minutes ’til they shift to the rooftop cigar bar, per a very chatty server who hates her shoes.”
“Hayes?”
