The Midnights met Vulpes at a lonely warehouse, the kind of place that had been forgotten by time—sitting on the outskirts of the city, far from prying eyes.

It was the perfect place for a meeting like this. No security cameras, no foot traffic, and no curious onlookers who might stumble into something they shouldn’t.

The air smelled of old concrete, rust, and the faint scent of oil. The building itself had likely been a shipping depot once, or maybe a storage facility—but now, it was just another husk of Montreal’s industrial past.

That suited all three of them just fine.

The Vulpes stood near the edge of the rooftop, her keen eyes scanning the area for any potential threats, her yellow lenses flickering in the darkness like a predator assessing its territory. There was no mistaking the confidence in her stance, the quiet self-assurance that came with having something valuable—something game-changing.

She had found something.

And she knew it.

It didn’t take long for the Midnights to arrive, their approach silent but unmistakable, the air shifting subtly as they made their way up to the rooftop.

Vulpes greeted them with a curt nod, a silent acknowledgment of their presence.

Madame Minuit returned the gesture, her expression unreadable at first—until she crossed her arms, her voice slipping into something lightly playful, yet edged with curiosity.

“So,” she started, tilting her head ever so slightly, “what did you steal from the henhouse, little fox?”

A small shadow of a smirk played across Vulpes’ lips.

With a practiced flick of her wrist, she pulled her pouch from her belt and held it up, revealing the hard drive nestled within.

"Oh, this?" she said with deliberate nonchalance. "Just a little souvenir from Schwartz & Goldstein."

She adjusted her stance slightly before adding, "Your lead paid off."

Monsieur Minuit’s brows furrowed slightly, his analytical mind already working through the implications.

"And what exactly did you find at the law firm?"

Vulpes' expression darkened, her voice laced with quiet disdain.

“Law firm—that’s a loose term.” She exhaled, rolling her shoulders slightly. “More like the Mafia’s personal accountants. And guess what? They weren’t just crunching numbers. They were laundering, moving funds, and—most importantly—handling certain... logistics.”

That got Monsieur Minuit’s full attention.

His arms crossed, his stance shifting just slightly, a telltale sign that he had locked in on the real prize buried beneath all the surface-level corruption.

“Logistics on Alfonso Ruso, I presume?”

Vulpes offered a subtle nod.

"Bingo. And who knows what other dirt is buried in here? Need to crack it first to get all the juicy details."

Madame Minuit felt a thrill of victory at the confirmation. This was real. This was actionable.

"Good. As for our end," she said, exhaling, "there was a suspicious lack of Steel Nomad bikers at their usual base of operations. Still trying to figure out why."

Vulpes nodded thoughtfully, considering the implications. The Nomads rarely broke routine—not without reason.

"From what I saw before I snatched this thing," she said, motioning to the hard drive, "they’re moving fast. If we don’t act soon, Ruso is going to be sipping wine in Europe under a brand-new identity before the week is out."

She paused, glancing between them.

"Odds are, the Nomads are running interference."

Madame Minuit’s lips quirked slightly, her eyes glinting with shared understanding.

"...You read my mind, Fox."

Monsieur Minuit’s jaw tightened, his leather gloves making a faint sound as his fists clenched slightly.

"We have a computer that can crack the hard drive."

Vulpes’ eyes flicked to him, reading the tension behind the statement. There was something unspoken in the way he said it, something that made her hesitate just for a moment.

She didn’t like handing off valuable intel so easily—especially not to someone who still seemed so reluctant to trust her.

Monsieur Minuit caught her hesitation and narrowed his eyes, his tone turning sharp and terse.

"My city. My rules for this team-up."

Madame Minuit, sensing conflict brewing, interjected smoothly before Vulpes could respond.

"What my partner means," she said, shooting him a subtle sidelong glance, "is our city. But more importantly, we have a secure base of operations, and I have more than enough computer expertise to handle this."

Vulpes studied Madame Minuit for a beat, then Monsieur Minuit, before slowly nodding.

She had already decided she wanted to work with them, even if Monsieur Minuit’s lingering distrust grated on her nerves. And, honestly? She couldn’t blame him.

If the roles were reversed, she might have been just as cautious.

With a measured motion, she extended the pouch to Madame Minuit.

Before she could take it, Monsieur Minuit snapped it up, securing it to his utility belt with unnecessary quickness.

"We’ll find you here tomorrow night after sundown," he stated flatly, the tone making it clear that there was no room for negotiation.

A small annoyed sound escaped Madame Minuit, a noise so subtle that most wouldn’t have caught it—but Vulpes did. And she filed it away.

She slowly nodded, keeping her voice neutral.

"Alright. Tomorrow after sundown."

With that, their temporary alliance was set in stone.

The three parted ways, each disappearing into the night.

The sun wasn’t far from rising.

Even vigilantes needed rest before the next hunt began.

***

Several hours later, after sneaking back into her hotel room under the cover of darkness, peeling off her costume, and getting just enough sleep to function, Coraline Penrose was jolted awake by the shrill chime of her phone.

Her muscles ached, a dull protest against the constant strain of balancing two lives, but she had long since grown accustomed to exhaustion. It was the price she paid for playing both lawyer by day, vigilante by night.

She blinked against the early morning light filtering through the curtains, rubbing the last remnants of sleep from her eyes as she glanced at the reminder flashing across her screen.

Appointment: Laura Locke—Montreal Insider.

Ah. Right.

The interview.

On paper, it was a simple meeting, a journalist wanting to discuss her legal work, the case she was consulting on, and the broader implications of corporate litigation in cross-provincial disputes—the kind of thing that would normally be tedious, but routine.

In reality?

It was a pretense.

Laura Locke wasn’t just any reporter. She was a damn good one, and if anyone in Montreal’s media circles had an ear to the ground on criminal activity, it would be her.

Coraline swung her legs over the bed, stretching out the stiffness in her limbs before padding toward the bathroom. A quick shower, a strong cup of coffee, and a touch of professional polish, and she’d be ready to play her other role—the respectable, intelligent legal consultant who had absolutely no connection to the city’s growing underworld conflicts.

At least the case she was working on was mercifully simple—cut-and-dry, legally speaking.

That meant she could devote more of her energy to what really mattered.

Figuring out what Laura Locke knew.

***

Elsewhere, Laura Locke greeted the morning with mild annoyance, her alarm clock blaring a reminder that she had an interview scheduled with that law consultant from Toronto.

Not exactly the kind of story she wanted to write, but her editor had been insistent—back off the hard-hitting exposés for a while, play nice, do something less inflammatory.

She had argued, of course—she always argued—but in the end, she had to pick her battles. And if playing the role of an obedient journalist for a few days kept her in the game? So be it.

Besides, what she really wanted to be doing was cracking that hard drive.

Her fingers itched to go through it, to uncover every shady detail buried within. But for now, she had to trust Jean to handle it.

Even if she had been annoyed with him lately, she still trusted him to get the job done.

Her gaze drifted toward him, still asleep beside her, his features softened in a rare moment of quiet.

A small smile tugged at her lips.

For all his intensity, for all his obsessive drive for justice, she loved him. Hell, if anything, it was why she loved him.

Careful not to wake him, she leaned in and placed a gentle kiss along his jawline.

Maybe a little extra sleep would improve his mood.

With that, she slipped out of bed, stretching as she padded toward the bathroom.

A hot shower. A respectable outfit. A strong espresso.

Then it was off to meet this uptight Toronto lawyer and play the part of the professional journalist.

For now, at least.

***

Coraline’s heels clicked with a steady rhythm against the pavement as she approached Laura Locke’s office, her posture as poised and deliberate as ever. She wasn’t overly fond of reporters—too many bad experiences with the media twisting the truth—but she had to admit, Locke was different.

Laura had a reputation for going after criminals, for exposing the corrupt, for getting under the skin of people who deserved to sweat. That, at least, aligned with Coraline’s sensibilities.

And, if she was being completely honest?

Laura Locke was easy on the eyes.

That was a small silver lining in what otherwise promised to be a tedious interview about a case that was practically an open-and-shut matter.

Afterward, Coraline had every intention of heading back to her hotel room, getting a few extra hours of sleep, and preparing for the real work tonight.

***

Inside the office, Laura Locke was making final adjustments, her journalist instincts on autopilot. This wasn’t going to be a high-effort interview—just another puff piece, a background legal commentary on corporate litigation, exactly the kind of thing that made her soul die a little inside.

She already knew how it would go.

She’d ask a few questions, get predictable, stiff, professional answers, and that would be that. Some stuffed-shirt legal consultant from Toronto, playing it by the book. She’d wrap things up, get home, maybe squeeze in a nap before getting ready for her actual job tonight.

The door to the office opened.

And for a moment, both women froze—just slightly—before masking it with well-practiced pleasantries.

They exchanged polite smiles, shook hands like two professionals meeting for the first time, but beneath that surface-level formality?

They were reading each other.

Sizing up, assessing—and maybe, just maybe, noticing a little more than they should.

***

Laura took Coraline in first.

Tall. Elegant.

Dressed in a sharp, tailored navy-blue pantsuit, crisp and pressed to perfection, with a fitted white blouse underneath that was just a little unbuttoned at the collar—just enough to make a statement without breaking decorum.

She moved with purpose, confidence, every step precise but unhurried, her posture straight-backed and impeccably controlled.

Her dark auburn hair was swept into a neat professional bun, save for a few loose strands framing her striking features—high cheekbones, piercing golden-brown eyes that held the intensity of someone who saw more than she let on.

Laura’s journalist instincts immediately flared.

This woman was dangerous.

Maybe not in the way Laura was used to with criminals, but there was an edge to her, something razor-sharp beneath all that polished professionalism.

A part of her wanted to test it.

A different part of her… well.

She filed that thought away.

***

Coraline, meanwhile, had already read Laura from the moment she walked in.

She wasn’t what she had expected.

Instead of some stuffy, dry investigative journalist, she was met with a woman who wore confidence like a second skin—but not in the rigid, corporate way Coraline often dealt with.

Laura Locke was casual about it. Comfortable in herself. A different kind of control.

She sat at her desk with an easy air, leaning back just slightly in her chair, one arm resting against the polished wood as if she were settling in for something more interesting than a legal interview.

Her outfit was professional—but in a way that felt deliberately undone.

A form-fitting black pencil skirt that accentuated long, toned legs crossed effortlessly at the knee. A burgundy blouse, silky and just a little looser than was strictly professional, with the top two buttons undone—enough to give off an unbothered confidence, like she hadn’t dressed to impress but somehow still did anyway.

Her dark brown hair was loose, styled in effortless waves that probably weren’t as effortless as they looked, framing sharp, mischievous eyes that watched Coraline with interest.

And that was what caught her most.

The interest. The curiosity.

Laura wasn’t just going through the motions of an interview.

She was watching Coraline, reading her like a subject under investigation.

Coraline recognized the feeling.

She had done the exact same thing moments ago.

And if she wasn’t mistaken, there was just the faintest flicker of something else behind those rich brown eyes—something not entirely professional.

Neither of them acknowledged it.

Not aloud.

But they both knew it was there.

And just like that, the interview had suddenly become much more interesting.

Don’t let yourself get derailed.

Coraline reminded herself of that as she re-centered her focus. She was here for information, not distractions—not sharp brown eyes, not an easy smirk, and certainly not whatever underlying tension had just flickered between them.

Alfonso Ruso. That was the priority.

Switching effortlessly into polished, fluent French, she greeted Miss Locke with a firm, professional handshake before taking a seat.

As Laura returned the gesture, her grip was confident, steady, the handshake of someone who had nothing to prove but everything to learn.

The moment Coraline sat down, she took a quick but thorough assessment of the office.

Every little personal effect, every deliberately placed object, all told her a part of the story of Laura Locke.

Her gaze flicked briefly to the handsome man with a square jaw in the framed photo on her desk.

Fiancé?

Lucky man.

The thought was silent, fleeting, filed away as easily as she took note of everything else.

There were trophies for shooting and archery—not just decor, but proof of skill.

The woman’s athletic. A good shot. Precision-focused.

Her diplomas hung on the wall—not just one, but several, showcasing degrees in criminology, journalism, and investigative research.

Framed writing awards and newspaper clippings stood proudly alongside them, some yellowing slightly with time but still meticulously displayed.

Pieces of her best work. The kind she wanted remembered.

To most people, it was a simple collection of personal items—tokens of accomplishment, a reflection of a career built on exposing truth and challenging power.

But to Coraline?

It was a puzzle, a portrait of a person laid out in clues.

And right now?

Laura Locke had just become more interesting than Coraline had anticipated.

Laura caught Coraline’s eyes scanning the office, filing away details, and she let out a small knowing smile before tapping the framed photo on her desk.

"Ah, you noticed my Jean," she said, her voice holding a distinct fondness as she ran a finger along the edge of the frame. "He’s my fiancé."

That shadow of a smile that crossed her lips when she said his name?

Coraline caught it.

Just like she caught everything else.

This woman feels deeply.

It was there in the way she spoke his name, in the small, unguarded moment that flickered across her face before she composed herself again.

And just as quickly, Coraline also realized something else—Laura had noticed her.

Not just her presence, but the way she had been taking in the room, processing every detail.

Miss Laura Locke is dangerously observant.

That little detail made Coraline like her even more.

She played it smooth, shifting into the expected small talk, the polite exchange of pleasantries that always preceded an interview like this.

"Your Jean is quite handsome, if I may say so," Coraline said, her tone polite but just a touch playful, offering a small, professional smile. "How long have you been together?"

Laura paused, just for a second, before answering.

"A few years."

She exhaled softly, a dreamy little sigh, before adding with an almost nostalgic warmth:

"We met in our first year of college. We fell for each other practically at first sight."

And Coraline?

She caught that, too.

The way Laura’s voice softened, the way her posture relaxed ever so slightly, as if just thinking about him brought her back to that moment in time.

It was genuine.

And something about that unspoken intimacy made Coraline feel...

Something she chose not to examine too closely, this was professional interest after all she told herself.

The interview was as standard as they came—a dance of expected questions and expected answers, both women going through the motions with efficiency and precision.

Neither veered off script, neither challenged the other, and both seemed intent on pushing it toward its inevitable conclusion—as if eager to be done with it, to move past the pretense.

Laura jotted down the last of her notes, the faint scratch of her pen filling the momentary silence.

Then, Coraline spoke.

"I noticed you have a degree in criminology, Miss Locke."

Laura’s eyes flicked up, sharp and knowing.

Of course, Coraline had noticed.

She had taken in everything the second she walked into the room. Laura had known she would—but she hadn’t expected her to bring it up.

Still, she didn’t call her on it.

Instead, she leaned back slightly, setting her pen down before offering a small, knowing smirk.

"The interview is over, please—call me Laura."

Coraline nodded, her lips curving into a small but genuine smile.

"Well, Laura, I was wondering if I could treat you to lunch at the café and pick your brain."

Laura raised an eyebrow slightly.

"Pick my brain?"

"Yes. I studied criminology as well," Coraline continued smoothly, her voice casual but deliberate. "And I’d love to hear the thoughts of Montreal’s rising star in investigative journalism."

A compliment. A subtle stroke to Laura’s well-earned ego.

But was it genuine curiosity—or just an excuse to extend the conversation?

Laura wasn’t sure.

But she was intrigued.

Laura wasn’t the type to let a compliment go unmatched.

With a smooth, effortless reply, she leaned forward slightly, a playful glint in her sharp brown eyes.

"And I suppose I shouldn’t pass up the opportunity to talk to one of Toronto’s newest and brightest legal minds on the subject."

The words were measured, a perfect mirror of Coraline’s own delivery—just enough to sound genuine, just enough to poke at whatever game was being played here.

There was mutual recognition in the exchange, an unspoken challenge beneath the polite professionalism.

Coraline tilted her head ever so slightly, her smirk deepening just a fraction, acknowledging the return volley.

They were both feeling each other out, and both were far too sharp not to notice it.

"Well then, Laura, you know Montreal better than I do—please, take the lead. I insist."

Coraline's tone was smooth, polished, a perfect blend of courtesy and playful deference, the kind of invitation that left no room for refusal without making it seem like a challenge.

As she rose gracefully from her seat, she reached for her purse with practiced ease, every motion deliberate, controlled—the embodiment of someone who was used to being in charge but knew when to let someone else think they were leading.

Laura caught that.

She saw it for exactly what it was—a subtle test, a carefully placed move in whatever this was becoming.

Her lips quirked slightly, amusement flashing in her gaze before she leaned back in her chair, studying Coraline for just a second longer than necessary.

Then, with an easy, self-assured smile, she stood as well, brushing an imaginary crease from her blouse before motioning toward the door.

"Alright then, Coraline. Let’s see if I can find you a place that meets your… refined tastes."

She let the words linger, just the faintest hint of teasing woven beneath the professional civility.

Whatever this lunch was about, it was already more interesting than she’d expected.

***

The café Laura chose was quiet, a little out-of-the-way place nestled between older brick storefronts, the kind of spot that didn’t draw too much attention—intimate enough for a private conversation, yet public enough to keep things neutral.

It was an ideal choice.

The soft hum of conversation from the few other patrons blended seamlessly with the quiet clinking of dishes and the occasional hiss of the espresso machine, but nothing loud enough to drown out details—details that Laura, ever the keen observer, thrived on picking up.

She had chosen well.

Coraline noted that immediately as they entered, her sharp eyes flicking around the space, taking in the layout, the exits, the clientele—the subtle, automatic assessment of someone who had spent too much time in places where situational awareness could mean life or death.

Laura caught the glance, filing it away.

She led them toward a small table near the window, offering just enough light for a pleasant setting, but not enough exposure to make them feel like they were on display.

As they took their seats, the weight of unspoken questions hung between them—not heavy, not uncomfortable, but present.

This wasn’t just lunch.

And they both knew it.

A waitress arrived swiftly, taking their orders with practiced efficiency before disappearing back behind the counter.

The moment she was gone, Laura was the first to break the silence, her tone smooth but genuinely intrigued.

"I must say, I didn’t expect you to want to chat about criminology. It’s a bit of a passion of mine, so I must admit—I’m pleasantly surprised."

There was no hesitation in her voice, just an openness that suggested she was curious where this was going.

Coraline rested her hands on the table, her fingers interlacing neatly as she regarded Laura with an easy but deliberate expression.

"Well, we’re of a like mind when it comes to that," she replied smoothly. "I've always found it a vital part of the justice system."

She let the words sit between them for a moment, measured, controlled, the kind of response that felt both genuine and careful—as if she were seeing how much Laura would give in return.

It was a conversation, yes.

But it was also a test.

And Laura, sharp as ever, caught it immediately.

Laura tilted her head just slightly, her sharp brown eyes locking onto Coraline’s, studying her with the same quiet intensity she usually reserved for interrogating a source.

"Well, I can't say I disagree," she said smoothly, her tone casual yet laced with something deeper, something thoughtful. "Understanding the motivations and mindset of the criminal element is vital to delivering justice with fairness and compassion."

Her choice of words was deliberate—justice, fairness, compassion.

Not just punishment.

Not just retribution.

Coraline recognized the distinction immediately.

Laura wasn’t just a journalist looking for sensational headlines or black-and-white morality—she was someone who understood the nuances of crime, of the people behind it.

That was interesting.

And perhaps… telling.

Coraline nodded—not in agreement, necessarily, but in understanding of Laura’s viewpoint.

"So, do you believe all criminals can be rehabilitated?"

It was a loaded question, and they both knew it.

Laura answered quickly, but not too quickly—not as if she were rushing, but because she had already thought about this before.

"I have two answers to that question," she said, her voice steady, measured. "First—no. In my experience, only people who want to change, will change."

Her eyes held Coraline’s, unwavering.

"Second—not all crimes are equal in scope or motivation. I wouldn’t lump a poor man stealing to feed his family with a mob boss."

It wasn’t just a well-reasoned response—it was a personal philosophy, one that had clearly been formed through experience, through observation, through time spent in the trenches of investigative journalism.

Coraline took a beat to let that sink in, analyzing the way Laura had framed it.

There was pragmatism in her words, but also a trace of something else.

Something personal.

Laura’s lips curved slightly, a glint of challenge flashing in her eyes as she smoothly returned fire with a loaded question of her own.

"So, Coraline, where do you stand on punitive justice versus reformative justice?"

Because one good loaded question deserved another.

Coraline didn’t miss a beat.

She took a measured sip of the water the waitress had set down, letting the pause linger just long enough to signal that she had nothing to prove, nothing to rush.

Then, setting the glass down with quiet precision, she answered smoothly, confidently—as if the question was nothing more than another legal argument to dissect.

"I think an ideal system is neither too heavy-handed in its punishment nor too lenient in its allowances."

She met Laura’s gaze, unwavering.

"Justice should be firm in its application, but a system also has to account for those who will try to manipulate it. Mercy has its place—but so does accountability."

It was a careful answer, thoughtful but not easily pinned down, toeing the line between pragmatism and principle.

And Laura?

She caught that.

Her fingers tapped lightly against her glass as she studied Coraline with renewed interest—not just for what she said, but for what she didn’t.

Their meal arrived—a light dish, nothing too heavy, with cappuccinos to wash it down.

Both women ate at a measured pace, the conversation continuing effortlessly between bites and sips, their discussion shifting from pointed debate to something more naturally engaging.

Laura was the first to speak, her voice carrying a rare note of approval beneath her usual sharp wit.

"You know, if I were to be perfectly honest, I’d say you have a refreshingly balanced take on how the legal system should approach criminal justice."

Coraline nodded slightly, taking a thoughtful bite of her food before replying.

"Thank you. I could say the same of you, Laura."

Then, setting her utensils down for a moment, she tilted her head slightly, shifting the conversation’s focus.

"Though what I was really curious about was whether you had any thoughts on crime culture."

Laura paused, her cappuccino hovering just below her lips, considering the question before answering.

"You mean how culture and background affect crime? Or are we talking about supervillain culture in places like New Libertalia?"

Coraline took a sip of her drink before responding, choosing her words with measured precision.

"The first. I’ve been doing some reading on how cultural background influences criminal organizations—their operations, their self-imposed rules."

She let the thought settle before adding, "Take the Irish Mafia and the Italian Mafia, for example."

Laura’s brows lifted slightly, interest flickering in her expression.

This wasn’t small talk anymore.

This was something else.

Something deeper.

Laura answered carefully, choosing her words with precision.

"Well, that’s an interesting example. Montreal has a long history with both. They’re arguably the largest crime syndicate families in both Montreal and Quebec City, and if I recall correctly, they’re also major players in Toronto and Ottawa."

Coraline nodded, her expression thoughtful.

"Yes. The families of Clannad Ardan and Il Consorzio delle Dieci Famiglie control the lion’s share of Eastern Canada’s organized crime networks." She took a measured sip of her drink before adding, "It’s no wonder they’re usually just a stone’s throw away from open warfare."

Her tone was matter-of-fact, but the weight behind the statement was undeniable.

These weren’t just crime families—they were super-syndicates, powerful enough to rival governments in influence, shaped not just by crime but by generations of tradition, blood feuds, and power struggles.

And right now?

One of those struggles was coming to a boiling point.

Laura took a measured sip of her drink, her mind ticking over Coraline's choice of words. Clannad Ardan and Il Consorzio delle Dieci Famiglie—the formal names for the Celtic Clans and the Ten Families. Most people, even those in law enforcement or investigative journalism, stuck to the colloquial terms. The fact that Coraline was using the higher-level terminology meant something. Either she was deeply read on the subject, or she had connections. Possibly both.

She didn't let her consideration show, instead offering a smooth reply. "Here in Quebec, it’s more specifically the Leclair-O'Hara and Ruso families who call most of the shots. The O'Haras have their roots deep in the Clannad Ardan, blending Irish and French ties into something uniquely Quebecois. The Rusos, on the other hand, are straight out of the Dieci Famiglie playbook—brutal, businesslike, and deeply embedded in high-end financial crime."

Coraline nodded, taking in Laura’s response as she delicately cut a piece of her food. "That tracks with what I’ve been reading. The Leclair-O'Hara family in particular is... interesting. There are whispers that they still lean into the old ways—loup-garou myths and a touch of Celtic magic, if the more superstitious accounts are to be believed."

Laura let out a small, knowing smile. "If you believe in that sort of thing. But their influence is very real. Their control over smuggling and black-market operations in Montreal is as strong as ever, and they have enough political and law enforcement connections to keep it that way. And while the O’Haras are powerful, I’d say the Rusos still run the bigger empire. The Ruso Family stretches from Montreal to Toronto and Ottawa, and they’re more than just a crime family—they’re part of a system. A machine that operates through finance, real estate, and government connections. They’ve modernized in ways most of the old crime families have struggled to keep up with."

Coraline tapped her fingers on the table, considering. "And yet, for all that modernity, I imagine they still resort to some good old-fashioned problem-solving when necessary."

Laura met her gaze. "I’d wager most of their problems get solved that way. Organized crime has a funny way of dressing itself up in suits and boardrooms, but at the end of the day, blood and bullets still do a lot of the talking."

Coraline smirked. "That’s why we call it organized crime instead of corporate maneuvering."

Laura chuckled, shaking her head. "Sometimes I wonder if there's a difference."

They let that thought linger for a moment before Coraline leaned back slightly, her posture relaxed, but her gaze still sharp.

"Speaking of Ruso," she said casually, swirling her cappuccino in her cup, "I saw in the news that one of the Ruso family skipped out on custody and his hearing. Alfonso Ruso, wasn’t it? The alleged hitman?"

Laura immediately clocked the shift in conversation. The transition was smooth—too smooth—like a well-placed lure in a game of high-stakes fishing.

Coraline was fishing, and fishing well.

Laura decided to play along, setting her cup down with a quiet clink against the saucer.

"Alfonso Ruso’s a liability, plain and simple," she said, voice even. "He had power, sure. But he got reckless, greedy. His feud with Clannad Ardan and that whole mess with the Malone family burned a lot of bridges."

She leaned slightly back in her chair, folding her arms.

"And when you’re dealing with Il Consorzio delle Dieci Famiglie, burning bridges usually means there’s a very deep river waiting for you at the end of the road."

Coraline hummed softly, running a finger along the rim of her cup.

"And yet, he’s still breathing."

Laura let out a quiet breath, acknowledging the truth in that statement.

"For now," she admitted. "The only reason Alfonso Ruso isn’t a memory is that someone still finds him useful. Or—" she leaned in slightly, her voice lowering just a fraction, "—someone is protecting him."

Coraline didn’t miss a beat.

"You think the Steel Nomads are involved?"

That was a direct probe, and Laura knew it.

But instead of bristling, she simply tilted her head, a half-smile playing at her lips.

"The Steel Nomads have deep ties to the Italian Mafia, practically a branch of their operations wrapped in leather and chrome. If Alfonso Ruso is here in Montreal, their involvement isn’t just likely—it’s a given."

Laura kept her expression neutral, her voice carrying just the right amount of professional curiosity, as if she were merely indulging in an intellectual conversation rather than probing something much deeper.

Her brown eyes flickered with interest, studying Coraline carefully.

"And so you think he is Montreal on the run?." Laura calmly asked.

Coraline didn’t so much as flinch—instead, she matched Laura’s smile, mirroring the same air of polite, detached intrigue.

Lifting her cappuccino in a measured toast, she responded smoothly.

"Well, Laura, it’s always good to be informed. You never know when such knowledge might come in handy."

Laura’s fingers wrapped around her own cup, her lips quirking just slightly as she lifted it in return.

Their gazes locked, each holding a silent conversation beneath the surface of their words—one neither could acknowledge, but both fully understood.

"Indeed."

"And so you think he’s in Montreal on the run?" Laura asked, her tone calm, measured—the kind of question that sounded casual, but was anything but.

She wasn’t pressing too hard, wasn’t making it obvious, but the way she framed it? That was deliberate. It was an open-ended probe, one that let Coraline reveal as much or as little as she wanted.

Coraline didn’t flinch, didn’t shift, didn’t betray a single thought that she didn’t want Laura to see.

Instead, she simply matched Laura’s smile, mirroring that same air of polite, detached intrigue—as if this were nothing more than a friendly exchange between two professionals with a shared intellectual curiosity.

Lifting her cappuccino in a measured toast, she responded smoothly.

"Well, Laura, it’s always good to be informed. You never know when such knowledge might come in handy."

Laura’s fingers wrapped around her own cup, her lips quirking just slightly as she lifted it in return.

Their gazes locked, each one holding a silent conversation beneath the surface of their words—one that neither of them could fully acknowledge, but both fully understood.

"Indeed."

Coraline took a long sip of her cappuccino, letting the pause settle naturally before adding,

“Though, logically speaking, if they wanted to move him, the prime choices would be Montreal, Boston, Chicago, or New York—well, that is, before they smuggle him off to Sicily.”

Laura nodded, considering the statement.

She wasn’t wrong.

And more importantly, nothing about the conversation hinted at more than a professional interest—at least, not in a way that could be definitively called out.

Still, Laura’s instincts told her otherwise.

There was something about Coraline’s interest in crime that felt… personal.

And that tracked, given what she knew about her.

Her grandfather had been gunned down in a gangland drive-by when she was younger. A senseless killing, a respected man caught in the crossfire of a war he had no part in.

But Laura wasn’t going to bring it up.

That would be rude.

And more importantly, it would tell Coraline that she had thoroughly researched her before this interview.

Instead, she simply let the conversation flow forward, playing her role as the curious journalist, intrigued but not probing too deep.

Laura knew that kind of loss all too well.

She had never said it out loud—not in a way that made it real—but she understood what it meant to have someone stolen from you by crime.

Her own past was stained with that same kind of grief, a wound left open by her father’s disappearance—presumed dead, yet never truly confirmed.

They had never found a body.

Never found the culprit.

But everyone knew.

Her father had been too loud, too vocal about the unions, too willing to push back against the wrong people.

And in a city where the syndicates always had the final say, that meant someone had decided he needed to disappear forever.

She had never spoken of it—not in an interview, not in a story. It was hers, a personal scar, a reminder of why she did what she did.

And in that moment, without thinking, without planning, she reached out and briefly touched Coraline’s hand.

It was subtle, fleeting, but deliberate—a quiet acknowledgment, a moment of shared understanding that neither of them needed to say out loud.

Coraline felt it—the ghost of something warm, grounding, something she hadn’t expected from this conversation.

A hint of a smile flickered at the edges of her lips before she broke the moment with a smooth, measured response.

"Well, let’s hope someone puts Alfonso Ruso behind bars where he belongs sooner rather than later."

Laura pulled her hand back slowly, the connection fading, but the meaning still lingering in the air.

"Yeah," she murmured, nodding slightly. "The world is a better place when men like him aren’t allowed to see the light of day."

They finished their meal, but something had shifted between them—something unspoken, something neither had anticipated.

A mutual understanding.

A shared pain.

And, maybe, just a little bit of something else.