Chapter 18: The Informant's Price
The whiskey was cheap, but it burned the right way. Milo watched Camilla Flores pour two fingers into a mismatched glass, her movements precise even as her apartment seemed to hold its breath around them. It was a tidy kind of chaos—organized stacks of case files on every flat surface, a sagging bookshelf crammed with graphic novels and social work textbooks, the faint, warm smell of cat and lavender.
“So the Ortiz family’s supplier ‘retired’ overnight,” Milo said, swirling the amber liquid. He was still standing, energy buzzing under his skin from Abbie’s dorm, a low hum he was trying to quiet. “And the replacement just happened to be a subsidiary of a Fisk holding company.”
“Tripling their wholesale costs.” Camilla nodded, sinking into the worn cushions of her sofa. She pulled a knee up to her chest, looking younger than twenty-four. “They held out for six weeks. Then the grandfather fell on a ‘poorly maintained’ stairwell in their building. No witnesses. The settlement offer came the next day.”
“Efficient.” The word tasted bitter. Milo took a long pull of whiskey, letting the heat bloom in his chest. He moved to the window, glancing through the slats of the blinds at the street below. Quiet. Normal. A lie. “It’s not even creatively evil. It’s just brute-force economics with a side of broken bones.”
“I see them every day,” Camilla said quietly. Her voice had changed, gone softer, frayed at the edges. “The kids who don’t understand why they had to leave their rooms. The parents who look… hollowed out. And I fill out forms. I make referrals to shelters that are already overflowing. It feels like trying to bail out a sinking ship with a teaspoon.”
Milo turned from the window. The single lamp painted her in warm light and deep shadows, highlighting the tired curve of her shoulders, the defiant set of her jaw. She was looking into her glass, not at him.
“Why’d you really call Abbie?” he asked, leaning against her bookshelf. A flurry of cat hair puffed into the air. “You could’ve just kept filing your reports. Gone home, watched some trash TV, forgot about it until the next family showed up at your office.”
She finally looked up, her dark eyes glistening. “Because I’m tired of being lonely in it.” The admission came out in a rush, stark and unvarnished. “Sorry. That’s… too personal. The whiskey.”
“It’s usually the truth.” He pushed off the shelf and came to sit on the battered coffee table, facing her. Their knees almost touched. The files were right there, a paper monument to failure between them. “This work… it isolates you. You see the rot, and everyone else is just living in the house, pretending not to smell it.”
“Yes.” The word was a sigh of relief. “Exactly. My friends talk about dating apps and bad bosses and I just want to scream. Do you know how many times I’ve started a sentence and just… stopped? Because the thing I need to say is too dark for a rooftop bar?”
Milo knew. He knew the exact weight of unsayable things. He saw it in Sarah’s eyes when she came home silent and moving stiffly, in Scott’s thousand-yard stare over scotch at two a.m. He reached out and took her glass from her hand, setting it next to his on the table. The clink was loud.
“So don’t say it,” he murmured.
He leaned in and kissed her.
It wasn’t like Abbie’s frantic, hungry collision. This was slow. Deliberate. A testing of waters. Her lips were soft, surprised, and tasted of whiskey and a faint trace of mint lip balm. For a second, she was perfectly still. Then a small, broken sound escaped her throat, and she kissed him back, her hand coming up to cradle the side of his stubbled jaw.
His hands slid from her knees to her hips, pulling her gently forward to the edge of the couch. The files beside them rustled. He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against hers, breathing her in—lavender, paper dust, loneliness.
“This is a bad idea,” she whispered, her breath warm on his mouth.
“The worst,” he agreed, and kissed her again, deeper this time.
His tongue slid against hers, and he felt the moment her professional resolve cracked. It didn’t shatter; it melted. A full-body surrender that started in her shoulders and ended with her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. He took his time, exploring the warm cavern of her mouth, learning her responses. A nip on her lower lip made her gasp. A slow, sucking kiss drew a soft moan.
He stood, pulling her up with him. Her body pressed against his was softer, fuller than Abbie’s taut strength. Real. Warm. He walked her backwards the two steps to the couch and they fell onto it in a tangle, sending a cascade of manila folders and loose-leaf notes sliding to the floor in a paper waterfall.
“Milo—” she breathed as his mouth found the long, elegant line of her throat.
“Shhh.” He kissed the frantic pulse there, his hands sliding under the hem of her simple cotton sweater. His palms skated over the smooth skin of her back, up to the clasp of her bra. He undid it with a practiced flick. “Just feel this. That’s all. Just this.”
He peeled the sweater and bra off over her head, tossing them onto the abandoned files. The lamplight gilded her skin. She was beautiful, lush and real, her nipples tightening in the cool air. He covered one with his mouth, and she arched off the couch with a sharp cry, her back bowing beautifully.
His hands were everywhere, mapping the generous curve of her waist, the swell of her hip, and finally, gripping the firm, perfect curve of her ass through her jeans. He squeezed, pulling her hard against the growing ache in his own jeans, and she groaned, grinding against him.
“Off,” he growled against her breast. “These need to be off.”
He helped her shimmy out of her jeans and underwear, his knuckles brushing the hot skin of her inner thighs. She kicked them away, her face flushed, her eyes wide and dark with a need that had been waiting a long, lonely time. He stood just long enough to strip his own clothes, his eyes never leaving her. She watched him with a raw hunger that stripped away any last pretense of just sharing information.
When he knelt back on the couch, she reached for him, but he caught her wrists, pinning them gently above her head with one hand. He kissed her stomach, the slight softness there, then lower. He used his free hand to part her legs, his thumb brushing through damp curls before settling on a slow, torturous circle.
She cried out, her hips lifting off the cushion. “Please…”
He replaced his thumb with his tongue, licking a slow, flat stripe that made her whole body jolt. He took his time, learning her rhythm, finding the spots that made her gasp and plead. Her taste was different, musky and sweet. Her thighs trembled against his ears. When her climax hit, it was a deep, rolling wave that shuddered through her, her cries muffled by her own arm as she bit into it.
He didn’t let her come down. He moved up her body, lining himself up at her entrance. He released her wrists, and her arms immediately wrapped around his neck, pulling him down for a desperate, open-mouthed kiss.
He pushed inside her in one slow, inexorable thrust. She was incredibly tight, hot, and wet. She broke the kiss with a choked gasp, her eyes flying open to lock with his. He held still, buried to the hilt, letting her adjust, watching the storm of sensation in her gaze.
“Okay?” he rasped.
She nodded, speechless, and lifted her hips, taking him deeper.
That was all the invitation he needed. He set a pace that was deep and relentless, each thrust grinding the base of his spine against the cushions, pushing them deeper into the couch. The only sounds were their ragged breathing, the slick slap of skin, and the soft crinkle of paper beneath them every time they moved. A forgotten case note was stuck to his sweaty forearm.
He drove into her, chasing his own release, fueled by the absolute wrongness of it and the perfect, tight heat of her. His mind fragmented—Sarah’s trusting voice on the phone, Abbie’s fierce intelligence, Camilla’s lonely confession, the city burning in slow motion beyond these walls. It all condensed into this single, sweating, animal point of connection.
“God, Camilla,” he grunted, his control splintering. His hand slid down to grip her ass again, holding her hard against him as he fucked her. The possessive thrill of it, the sheer physical perfection of her in his hands, tipped him over the edge. He came with a shattered groan, his head dropping to the damp hollow between her neck and shoulder.
For a minute, there was only the sound of their slowing breaths. The smell of sex and whiskey and old paper. The uncomfortable stick of a file folder against his thigh.
He kissed down her spine, tracing the delicate ridge of bone with his lips, letting his beard scratch the soft skin of her lower back.
She arched into the touch with a shuddering moan, her fingers clawing into the couch cushions. "God—" His name tore from her lips like a prayer, half plea, half warning, before he buried his face in the crook of her neck and inhaled deeply, letting the lavender scent and the salt of her skin drive him further.
Milo didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The way her body responded to him was answer enough—her hips rolling back against him, the desperate little sounds she made when his teeth grazed the sensitive skin just below her ear. He’d convinced himself this was just a distraction, a temporary salve against the weight of everything else.
She was a fun diversion, nothing more.
His mouth trailed down her spine, lips lingering over each vertebra like he was counting—or memorizing. The heat of her skin seared through his stubble, the scent of her—lavender and salt and something sweetly feminine—flooding his senses. He nipped at the base of her neck, just hard enough to make her gasp, her back arching beneath him like a bow. The files beneath them crinkled in protest, forgotten paper chaos now scattered across the couch and floor. He didn’t care. Let the world burn. Right now, there was only this—her skin under his hands, her breath hitching with every slow drag of his teeth.
He kept kissing down her back as he mused to himself, She was an easy lay. Not because she didn’t matter—God, she mattered *too much*, which was the only reason this wasn’t just another meaningless hookup—but because she’d fallen into it without hesitation, without calculation, just raw need trembling beneath the surface of her professional armor. That made her easy in the way he despised in himself: the kind of easy that came from loneliness, not strategy.
His stubble rasped against the tender skin just above her tailbone, and she shivered violently, her nails scraping the couch cushion in a sound like dry leaves scraping concrete.
His stubble rasped against the tender skin just above her tailbone, and she shivered violently, her nails scraping the couch cushion in a sound like dry leaves scraping concrete. He was about to turn her over when the shrill, familiar ringtone split the humid air of the apartment.
It was Sarah’s ring. ‘Black Cat’s Lair’ flashed on the screen where his phone lay buzzing atop a file labeled ‘Ortiz Family.’
“Shit,” he muttered, his breath hot against Camilla’s lower back. She went still beneath him.
“Don’t answer it,” she whispered, her voice thick and desperate.
He kissed the knob of her spine, a soft apology, and reached for the phone. He hit accept and brought it to his ear, his other hand smoothing possessively over the curve of her hip.
“Hey, you,” Sarah’s voice came through, bright with a tired energy. He could hear traffic in the background. She was probably walking home from the safehouse. “You still with the social worker?”
“Yeah, just wrapping up.” He nuzzled the nape of Camilla’s neck, inhaling the scent of her sweat and shampoo. Camilla trembled, holding her breath. “Getting some solid human-interest angles. Nasty stuff.”
“Good. Scott’s got the port authority ledger. It’s a bloodbath. Get what you need and come home?” Her tone softened at the end, a quiet request that hooked something guilty under his ribs.
“Absolutely.” He dropped a kiss between Camilla’s shoulder blades, his lips moving lower. “I’ll see you back at my place soon. I love you.”
The words were automatic, polished smooth by years of use. They felt like a stone in his mouth as he said them into Camilla’s skin. He ended the call and tossed the phone back onto the files, the screen darkening.
Silence rushed back in, heavier now. Camilla hadn’t moved. Her breathing was shallow. He resumed kissing down the elegant slope of her back, his hands moving to her shoulders, trying to reclaim the lost moment.
Her body was rigid. After a few seconds, she shifted, reaching one arm out to the floor beside the couch. Her fingers fumbled through the scattered papers until they closed on a specific green folder. She pulled it up and held it blindly behind her, offering it to him.
“What’s this?” he asked, his voice rough. He took it but didn’t open it, his attention still on the line of her spine.
“Trisha Krishnan.” Camilla’s voice was small, muffled by the cushion. “She’s a lawyer. A good one. South Indian, tough as hell. She’s been looking into the illegal evictions pro bono. She has the paper trail the city won’t acknowledge. Names, dates, judges. You should see her.”
Milo finally lifted his head, looking at the green folder. It was neatly tabbed. He flipped it open. Inside were crisp, legible notes, official document references, and a business card paper-clipped to the inside cover: TRISHA KRISHNAN, ESQ., with an address in the legal district.
This wasn’t anecdotal. This was admissible.
“She’ll talk to me?” He ran a hand up Camilla’s side, feeling the goosebumps there.
“If I ask her to. I’ll text her. Tell her you’re coming.” Camilla rolled over then, looking up at him. Her eyes were too bright, searching his face for something—regret, maybe, or a sign that the “I love you” had been a lie for her benefit, too. He kept his expression neutral, a practiced blank slate.
He leaned down and kissed her, slow and deep, a promise of more. “You’re a lifesaver, Camilla.”
He got up from the couch, his body feeling both sated and strangely charged. He dressed quickly, the green folder clamped under his arm. Camilla watched him from the couch, pulling a woven blanket over herself, a fortress against the sudden coolness.
He knelt beside her, cupping her face. He kissed her again, softer this time. “I’ll see you soon,” he promised, his thumb brushing her cheekbone. It wasn’t a lie. He would. She had more files, more connections. She was useful. And she looked at him like he’d hung the moon in her cluttered, lavender-scented sky.
“Be careful,” she said.
He winked, a hollow gesture that felt like one of his own bylines—all style, no substance. Then he was out her door, descending the stairs two at a time, the green folder a tangible weight.
The night air was a cold knife. He lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around Trisha Krishnan’s business card as he pulled it free. He tapped her number into his phone as he walked, the text to Camilla already sent. On my way. Tell her I’m a friend.
A cab screeched to a halt at his sharp whistle. He slid into the back, giving the legal district address. As the city blurred past, his mind scrolled through the pieces: Abbie’s financial maps, Camilla’s human wreckage, Sarah’s rooftop forensics, Scott’s ledgers. And now a lawyer named Trisha.
The cabbie eyed him in the mirror. “Rough night?”
Milo stared out at the neon-drenched streets, at the crumbling facades Fisk was so eager to replace. He took a long, final drag of the cigarette before flicking it out the window.
“You have no idea,” he said.
The cab’s engine roared as he settled back into the seat, the green folder burning a hole in the space between his knees. He thumbed the edge of the business card. Trisha Krishnan, Esq. If Fisk had a paper trail, she wouldn’t just talk—she’d fight it in court and on front pages, and that was exactly the kind of reckless fire Milo needed right now.
The cabbie’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror again. “That address you gave—legal district. Expensive block.”
Milo grunted, pulling out his flask of half-cut bourbon. He took a short sip, let the burn settle before answering.
“Yeah. Expensive block. Fisk likes his lawyers where the wood is polished and the coffee’s overpriced.”
The cabbie’s eyes flicked back to the road, but Milo kept his gaze out the window, watching the city swallow itself in flickering neon and deep shadow. The whiskey had done its job—warming his throat, quieting the guilt like it always did. Guilt was just another expense he couldn’t afford.
Trisha Krishnan’s office was in a glass-and-steel tower that gleamed like a blade in the night. The lobby smelled of espresso and polished marble.
Milo’s boots left faint scuffs on the pristine floors as he crossed them, the green folder tucked under his arm like a guilty secret. He caught his reflection in the elevator doors—ruffled dark hair, stubble like sandpaper, eyes bloodshot from whiskey and lack of sleep. He looked exactly like what he was: a man who’d spent the night stealing warmth before running headlong into danger.
The elevator hummed upward, its mirrored walls reflecting his silhouette in fractured pieces: torso, legs, then just his face staring back at him like a ghost.
Milo adjusted his cuffs, the whiskey burn still warm in his gut. The green folder was a weight against his ribs. He could feel the city’s pulse below him—pneumatic drills, sirens, the distant scream of a subway train—but up here, it was quiet. Too quiet.
Too quiet.
The elevator doors sighed open onto a carpeted hallway. Milo found the door, frosted glass with T. Krishnan, Esq. etched in clean, no-nonsense type. He could see a shadow moving inside, a silhouette against the blinds. He knocked.
The door opened almost immediately.
Trisha Krishnan stood there, and for a second, Milo’s brain stuttered. Camilla’s description had been clinical. This was something else. She wore a black saree, the silk draped elegantly over one shoulder, revealing a strip of toned, warm brown stomach and the subtle dip of her navel. The fabric pooled at her feet. Her lips were full, unpainted, and her dark eyes were sharp, intelligent, already assessing him with a predator’s calm. He smelled sandalwood and ink.
“You’re Davidson.” Her voice was lower than he expected, a rich contralto. “Camilla said you’d be… scruffier. Come in, I don’t have all night.”
He stepped inside, the green folder feeling suddenly clumsy in his hands. Her office was minimalist, all clean lines and case law books. A single desk lamp pushed back the gloom. The city glittered silently through the window behind her.
“I appreciate you seeing me so late,” he began, the professional script automatic on his tongue.
She turned from closing the door, her gaze dropping to the folder. “Is that the Ortiz summary? Let me see it.”
He moved to hand it over. But his eyes were stuck on the elegant line her neck made as she looked down, on the way the saree’s pallu had slipped, revealing the smooth curve of her shoulder. The scent of sandalwood was closer now, intoxicating. The silence of the tower, the residual heat from Camilla’s couch, the low hum of danger from the files—it all compressed into a single, impulsive point.
Instead of handing her the folder, he dropped it.
It hit the floor with a soft whump, papers sliding slightly. Her eyes flicked down in annoyance. “What are you—“
He closed the distance and kissed her.
He wasn’t gentle. He kissed her senseless, his mouth crushing hers, one hand coming up to cradle the back of her head, his fingers tangling in the sleek knot of her hair. She made a muffled sound of pure shock against his lips, her body stiffening. He swallowed the sound, his tongue pushing into her mouth, tasting coffee and something faintly spicy.
Her hands came up to his chest, not pushing, but gripping the fabric of his shirt, knuckles white. He walked her backwards until her shoulder blades met the cool drywall. He pinned her there with his body, the hard line of him against the soft silk. He broke the kiss, both of them breathing hard. Her eyes were wide, bewildered, her lips swollen.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she breathed, but her voice lacked conviction. It was shaky.
He didn’t answer. He kissed her again, slower now, a deep, consuming exploration. Then his mouth left hers, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of her throat. He nuzzled the hollow at its base, his beard scraping her delicate skin. He continued down, over the ridge of her collarbone, his lips finding the exposed dip of her midriff.
He pressed his face there, inhaling the scent of her skin through the fine silk. He kissed the sensitive skin around her navel, his tongue darting out. A low, shuddering moan escaped her, her head thumping back against the wall. Her grip on his shirt tightened, pulling him closer, not pushing him away.
They kept kissing, a desperate, sliding exchange against the wall until they were both gasping. He grabbed her ass through the silk, feeling the incredible, firm curve of it, and lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his waist instinctively, her saree pooling around them. He carried her the few stumbling steps to a large, low leather couch she probably used for client consultations and let them fall onto it.
It wasn’t a bed, but it was wide and deep. The silk of her saree was a complex maze. He didn’t bother with elegance. He found the end of the drape and pulled, unraveling her with a series of rough, urgent tugs until the fabric slithered away, a dark puddle on the floor. She helped him, her movements frantic, tearing at his belt, his zipper, pushing his clothes down over his hips.
There was no more talking. Just skin, and heat, and the slick, hungry sound of their mouths meeting. He entered her in one deep, claiming thrust. She cried out, her nails scoring his back, her hips rising to meet him. It was fast, and hard, and punctuated by the soft, rhythmic thud of the couch against the wall. Her professionalism was gone, shattered into raw, gasping need. He watched her face, the way her brows knit in concentration, the way her mouth fell open on a silent scream as she climaxed, her inner muscles clamping around him in fierce pulses.
It pushed him over the edge. He buried his face in her neck, a guttural groan tearing from his chest as he finished inside her, his body shuddering with the release.
For a long time, the only sound was their ragged breathing slowing, syncing. The city’s lights painted shifting patterns on the ceiling. The green folder was still a scattered mess by the door.
Slowly, he rolled onto his side, pulling her with him. He kissed a slow trail down the sweat-slicked groove of her spine, his lips gentle now. He could feel the rapid flutter of her heartbeat under her skin.
“Well,” she said after a moment, her voice husky and amused. She tilted her head to look back at him over her shoulder. “I definitely didn’t expect our first professional meeting to go like this.”
He chuckled, the sound rough. He nuzzled the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder, breathing in the mixed scent of their sweat and her sandalwood perfume. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”
“Are you?” She shifted, turning fully to face him. Her dark eyes were clear, analytical again, but with a new, intimate knowledge in them. “Does that move usually work? The drop-the-file-and-assault-the-lawyer technique?”
“It’s a recent innovation.” He traced the line of her jaw with a finger. “You’re not pressing charges, I take it.”
“The case file you ruined is for a landlord dispute. It’s boring as hell.” She sighed, a contented, tired sound. “But the files you’re actually here for… those are in the locked cabinet. And they’re not boring at all.”
Milo’s investigative instincts, dulled by whiskey and sex, snapped back to razor focus. He propped himself up on an elbow. “What’s in them?”
“Fisk doesn’t just bribe city officials,” she said, her gaze locking with his. All teasing was gone. “He owns a minority stake in a private psychiatric facility upstate. Meadowview. Quiet place. Expensive.”
Milo went very still. “So?”
“So,” Trisha continued, her finger drawing an idle circle on his chest. “Three of the key witnesses against him in earlier, failed investigations—a bookkeeper, a former foreman, and a city planner—all voluntarily committed themselves there for ‘exhaustion’ within six months of agreeing to testify. They signed heavily revised affidavits from their rooms. All their committal paperwork was expedited by a judge who later retired to a very large villa in Costa Rica.”
The air left Milo’s lungs. It wasn’t just brute force or financial pressure. This was something colder, more insidious. He wasn’t just buying people off or breaking their stairs. He was buying their sanity, or the convincing facade of its absence.
“He’s not just silencing them,” Milo whispered, the horror of it coiling in his gut. “He’s erasing them. Making them legally unreliable.”
“Exactly.” Trisha’s expression was grim. “It’s elegant. And almost impossible to prove without someone on the inside. Which is why I’ve been paying a very nervous orderly at Meadowview a not-insignificant amount of money for photocopies of visitor logs and medication charts.”
Milo stared at her. The beautiful lawyer in the rumpled saree, surrounded by the quiet evidence of her own risk. The green folder by the door was child’s play. This was the heart of it. “You have them?”
“I have enough to get us all killed.” She nodded toward her sleek desk. “In a hidden compartment. I was waiting for someone who couldn’t be scared off. Camilla said you were a relentless, grumpy bastard who cared about the city.” A faint smile touched her lips. “She didn’t mention the… other thing.”
Milo kissed her shoulder, a silent acknowledgment. The guilt was a distant ghost. This was bigger. Sarah was tracking physical weapons. Abbie was mapping money. Camilla was collecting the broken victims. And Trisha had just handed him the mechanism of the nightmare.
“I need to see those logs,” he said, already moving to get up.
She caught his arm, her grip firm. “Tomorrow. My orderly doesn’t make his delivery until noon.” She pulled him back down toward her. “The city’s waited this long. It can wait until morning.”
He looked at her, at the determination in her eyes, and saw the same driven spark he used to see in his own reflection, years ago. He settled back against the leather. The cool air raised goosebumps on their skin. Outside, the first faint grey light of dawn was beginning to bleed into the black at the edge of the skyline.
He had come for a thread. He’d found a live wire. And he was lying naked with the woman who held it. Somewhere across town, Sarah was sleeping in his bed, trusting him. Abbie was probably still awake in her dorm, coding. Camilla was staring at her ceiling, tangled in a blanket that smelled like him.