Chapter 17: The Aftermath's First Move
“I need a drink,” she said, her voice dull.
“I’m at my place. I’ve got a bottle of that Sassicaia you didn’t finish. Better use for it than wallowing.” The charm was back, a gentle hook. “Come over. We’ll look at the preliminary feed. See what our money bought.”
He was already reframing it, turning the trauma into a shared professional triumph. It was monstrous. It was also exactly what she needed. To not be alone with the shaking and the shame. To be the lawyer on the case again.
“Give me twenty minutes,” she said, and ended the call.
Milo’s apartment was dark except for the blue glow of his laptop, which illuminated his lean, focused face. The feed from the camera was a low-angle, wide shot of Fisk’s private study. They watched the man himself enter after the gala, pour a large drink, and sit at an ornate desk, making a series of calls in a low, commanding voice.
“Paydirt,” Milo murmured, zooming in. On the desk, clear as day, was a ledger. And next to it, a project schematic labeled “Mesa Vistas – Phase 3 Excavation.”
Trisha stood by the window, holding her glass of wine, not drinking. She watched the screen over his shoulder, her body rigid. “We need to get that ledger. The schematic is meaningless without the financials.”
“We will.” He leaned back, looking up at her. The blue light caught the silver in his hair. “You did incredible work tonight, Trisha. Seriously.”
She finally took a sip. The wine was rich, expensive, and tasted like ashes. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t sweeten it. It was a dirty job. I did it. Let’s leave it there.”
He studied her for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Fair.” He clicked a key, saving a clip. “I’ll have this to my editor in the morning. The pressure starts tomorrow. Fisk will be feeling it from both sides—the press and, thanks to you, the AG’s office.”
She finally moved, sitting on the far end of his sofa, tucking her legs beneath her. The adrenaline was gone, leaving a deep, hollow fatigue. “What now?”
“Now,” he said, closing the laptop, “we wait for the pressure to crack something open. And we stay ready.” He got up, poured himself two fingers of whiskey, and came to sit closer to her, not touching, but within reach. The warmth of his body was a palpable thing in the cool room. “For what it’s worth… I’m glad the waiter walked in.”
She looked at him then, searching his face for the lie. His expression was unreadable in the dimness. “Are you?”
“Yes.” He said it simply. “The mission didn’t require that.”
It was the closest she would get to an apology, to acknowledging the line that had been crossed. It was nothing. It was also everything. The fragile, dangerous connection between them tightened another notch.
Her phone buzzed on the coffee table. She ignored it.
His buzzed a second later. He glanced at it. A text from Rachel: Can’t sleep. Thinking about you.
He didn’t reply. He placed the phone face down on the table and took another sip of whiskey, his eyes never leaving Trisha’s exhausted, beautiful face in the shadows. The game, after all, had many fronts.
And he was a master of holding the line. He let the silence stretch, a shared, exhausted space. “You should stay here tonight,” he finally said, his voice low. “It’s late. You’re rattled.”
Trisha shook her head, the movement stiff. “I need my own bed. My own space.” She stood, placing the untouched wine glass on the table with a definitive click. “But tomorrow. We should sync up. My place, ten AM. We can map a real strategy off that footage.”
“Your place,” Milo agreed, rising. He walked her to the door, his hand a ghost of a touch on her lower back. “Get some sleep.”
She left without looking back.
The next morning, her apartment felt different. The sleek lines and cold views offered no comfort, only a reminder of the performance. She’d slept fitfully, the memory of Fisk’s hands replaced by the cooler, more calculated scrutiny in Milo’s eyes.
She dressed with deliberate care, choosing a sari of emerald green silk. It was an armor of culture, of self. She draped it herself, the familiar ritual steadying her hands. The pale midriff it revealed was a statement she needed to feel in control of today.
Milo arrived precisely at ten, bearing two paper cups of brutal black coffee. He handed her one, his sharp gray eyes taking her in. “You look like you’re about to argue before the Supreme Court.”
“I feel like I need to,” she said, letting him in. She led him to the living area, where she’d already set up her laptop, the frozen image of Fisk’s ledger on the screen. “I’ve been thinking. The ledger is digital. What we saw was a printout. We need the server.”
Milo sat on the sofa, leaning forward. He was all business, but his gaze kept drifting from the screen to the drape of silk over her hip, to the sliver of bare skin at her waist. “Agreed. The schematic shows excavation. He’s digging for something, not building. This is a recovery operation.”
“Illegal excavation,” Trisha corrected, pacing. The silk whispered with her movement. “On land owned by a shell company. It’s theft. We tie the money flow to the dig, we have him.” She stopped, turning to him. “We need to find the site.”
“I have a source who might know.” Milo’s voice was distractingly casual. He wasn’t looking at the screen anymore. He was staring at the elegant dip of her navel, the smooth, warm-toned curve of her abdomen revealed by the sari’s precise geometry. His professional focus had dissolved into something far more primal.
“Who?” she pressed, not noticing his shift.
He didn’t answer. He stood in one fluid motion and crossed the space between them. Before she could react, his hands were on her hips, spinning her gently and pinning her back against the cool glass of the window wall. The city sprawled behind her, a dizzying drop.
“Milo—” His name was a startled breath on her lips.
He didn’t kiss her mouth. He dropped to his knees, his hands sliding up her bare sides, pushing the silk aside. He pressed his mouth to the sensitive hollow of her navel. It wasn’t a kiss. It was a feverish claim, hot and open-mouthed, his tongue tracing a desperate circle that made her gasp and arch into the glass.
A molten moan broke from her throat. Her hands flew to his salt-and-pepper hair, not to push him away, but to clutch him closer. The intellectual tension of the case, the residual violation from Fisk, the sheer magnetic danger of Milo—it all fused into a single, white-hot wire of need.
He rose then, lifting her as if she weighed nothing. Her legs wrapped around his waist instinctively. He carried her to the king-sized bed, laying her down on the emerald silk duvet that mirrored her sari. He nuzzled the line of her neck, his breath scalding against her pulse point as she arched, offering herself.
With a quiet, almost rude efficiency, he began to unwrap her. The silk sighed as he pulled it free, revealing the elegant, complicated clasp of her bra. He solved it with a twist. The fabric fell away.
He buried his face between her breasts, a low growl in his throat. The boldness of it, the sheer unromantic hunger, stole the air from her lungs. This wasn’t courtship. It was consumption. And she was dissolving under it, gasping at the stranger who made her feel utterly known and completely overpowered.
Then there was only heat, and skin, and the frantic syncopation of their bodies. The world outside the windows ceased to exist. There was only his weight, his commanding rhythm, and her own answering cries, sharp and unforgivably honest against his shoulder. It was a furious, perfect collision.
Afterwards, she slept, a deep, shocked sleep. Milo lay beside her, propped on an elbow. The midday light painted her naked back in gold. He kissed a slow trail down her spine, over the faint, ghostly marks his hands had left on her hips. He mused on the conquest, the perfect vulnerability he’d unlocked. She was even more formidable—and now, more pliable—than he’d calculated.
He extracted himself without waking her. Dressing silently, he picked up his phone from the marble floor.
He pocketed the phone, and took one last look at Trisha’s sleeping form. Then he let himself out, the door clicking shut with a sound of finality. The line was held.
And the next piece was already in motion. Milo’s story hit the digital front page at 5:17 a.m. under a blistering headline. It wove together the hidden-camera ledger, the excavation schematics, and three sworn affidavits from former Kronos Shield employees he’d quietly cultivated.
The dominoes fell with a quiet, administrative ruthlessness. Federal warrants were executed on the Mesa Vistas site by noon, exposing an illegal rare-earth mineral dig. Wilson Fisk was arrested for fraud, conspiracy, and interstate theft before he finished his second espresso. His empire of shell companies imploded by close of business, a dry, papery collapse.
The victory felt airless to Trisha. There was no crescendo, just a sudden, silent vacancy where a monumental enemy had been. She stood at her window, watching the city churn beneath a lead-gray sky. Her professional email bloomed with congratulatory notes, but her body still remembered the heat of Fisk’s grasp and the subsequent, frantic oblivion she’d found with Milo.
They didn’t discuss it. They just fell into a pattern over the following weeks, a mutually understood transaction. He would text late, a single question mark. She would reply, often just an address—his place or hers. It was never tender. It was hunger, a physical rewrite of the day’s tensions. He was bedding his latest, most rewarding source, and she was exorcising ghosts with a man made of sharper stuff.
One hazy morning, weeks later, weak light filtered through Milo’s blackout blinds. He woke to the slow, warm trail of Trisha’s mouth moving down his chest. Her dark hair fanned across his stomach. “You’re awake,” she murmured against his skin, her voice thick with sleep.
“Hard to sleep through that.” He slid a hand into her hair. “And you’re one to talk. The entire building knows my name by now.”
She laughed, a low, gratified sound, and nipped his hipbone. “Maybe I want them to. Your stamina’s impressive for an old man.” She kissed lower. “Let’s test its limits.”
Later, spent and breathing hard, she slipped from the tangled sheets. She padded to the kitchen, wearing nothing but his wrinkled button-down and a pair of lacy black panties he’d bought her. The shirt tails just covered the magnificent curve of her ass.
He watched her move, the efficient way she ground the coffee beans. The cotton pulled taut across her rear with every step. A deep, possessive satisfaction settled in him. He got up, crossing the cool floor in his boxers.
As she reached for two mugs, he delivered a sharp, playful slap to her backside. The sound cracked in the quiet kitchen. She jumped, a little gasp escaping her, but then she leaned back into the touch, a subtle arch of her spine. She hid her smile by focusing on the pour.
He truly had hit the jackpot. Brains, drive, a body that defied logic, and a responsiveness she couldn’t fully disguise. He retrieved his phone from the nightstand while the rich smell of coffee filled the room. Trisha hummed something, her hips swaying slightly as she fetched the cream from the fridge.
He opened his messages, pulling up the contact saved as “A. Zhao – Chem 101.” His thumbs moved swiftly. Need a professional consultation. Not for Abbie. For the Mantis. Something’s brewing in the dockside warehouses. You in? He hit send, placed the phone face down, and walked up behind Trisha, wrapping his arms around her waist as she stirred his coffee just how he liked it.
He nuzzled the junction of her neck and shoulder, inhaling the scent of sex and expensive shampoo. “You’re getting domestic,” he murmured.
“Don’t get used to it,” she said, but she leaned back against his chest, handing him his mug. “This is just a ceasefire.”
“The best kind.” He sipped the coffee, his eyes drifting over the cityscape. The Fisk conviction was yesterday’s news. The accolades were dry ink. A restless, familiar void was opening up, the space between major stories where lesser men might rest. Milo never rested. He scanned the digital ether, the police blotters, the fringe forums, seeking the next fissure in the city’s façade.
Something new had been flickering at the edge of his awareness for days. A blur on security cameras. A new, unaffiliated vigilante. They were calling her the Green Arrow online. Her pattern was erratic, her motives unclear. She wasn’t a symbol of hope like some of the others; she seemed driven by a personal, volatile fury. That kind of unpredictability was either a problem or an opportunity. Probably both.
He watched Trisha move back to the bedroom, the shirt riding up. The sight of her, all that fierce intelligence and devastating physicality wrapped in his cotton, was a potent temporary satisfaction. He coldly decided it was time to move on from Trisha as a primary focus. The professional utility of their connection had peaked with Fisk’s downfall. She was a brilliant lawyer, but her world was bound by statutes and precedent. The shadow-game he needed to play now was messier, less legal.
However, as he ogled Trisha’s amazing ass, the perfect, rounded shape clearly outlined by the thin fabric, he mused a few more rolls in the hay wouldn’t hurt. She was a spectacular distraction between investigations. He could keep her warm, keep her wanting, and free himself to chase this new, more volatile thread.
They continued to have hot sex over the coming weeks. It became a rhythm. A late-night text, a wordless afternoon at her place, a quick, intense grapple against his kitchen counter that left them both breathless. It was all friction and release, a dialogue conducted entirely with hands and mouths. They rarely spoke of the Green Arrow, or of anything substantive. The unspoken agreement held: this was physical, temporary, and separate from the slowly turning gears of his new curiosity.
Late one evening, he was alone in his apartment. The silence was a thick thing, broken only by the click of his keyboard as he compiled footage of the new vigilante—a blur of green tackling a drug runner in an alley, a grainy shot of her perched on a gargoyle. The footage was frustratingly scarce. She was good at avoiding cameras.
A soft tap at his window, twenty-eight floors up, made him freeze. He turned slowly.
The Mantis was crouched on his narrow balcony ledge, backlit by the city’s glow. Her sleek leather suit clung to every curve, the mask an expressionless insectoid veneer. She looked like a fever dream against the ordinary backdrop of his apartment.
He exhaled, a slow, deliberate breath, and walked to the sliding door, unlocking it. She slipped inside with a whisper of movement. The room seemed to shrink, charged with her presence.
“You texted,” she said, her voice digitally modulated into a low, genderless hum. She crossed her arms. The pose emphasized the swell of her breasts against the molded leather.
“I did. Thanks for coming.” He leaned against his desk, adopting a casual slouch. “We need to talk about the new player. The Green Arrow.”
The Mantis’s head tilted. “What about her?”
“She’s volatile. Unpredictable. I’ve seen the reports—she puts perps in the hospital, not just cuffs.” He studied the blank mask, trying to read the person beneath. “I need to know if she’s a loose cannon or if she’s got a method. Whether she can be trusted.”
Abbie, beneath the mask, felt a flutter of anxiety. Milo was talking shop, treating her like a source. It was thrilling. “I don’t know her. She doesn’t run with any crew. She’s a solo act. Seems… angry.”
“Angry at what?” Milo pressed, taking a step closer.
“How should I know?” She deflected, taking a step back, her hips swaying with the movement. The retreat was unconsciously graceful. “I’m not her therapist.”
Secretly, Milo ogled Abbie’s amazing ass. The leather suit seemed painted on, highlighting the petite but perfect, perky curve of her rear as she turned. The contrast between the lethal vigilante and the young woman he knew was dizzying. After the intense but familiar terrain of Trisha, this was something new. A different kind of game. He mused he deserved some fun.
“You’re in the same circles. You hear things.” He took another step, corralling her gently toward the center of the living room. “Is she a threat?”
“To the bad guys? Definitely.” Abbie’s modulated voice held a hint of defiance. “To the city? I don’t know yet.”
He was close now, within arm’s reach. The air between them crackled. “I need an introduction. A way to talk to her.”
“I can’t just—”
He suddenly pinned Abbie to the floor. It was fast, a practiced maneuver using her own momentum against her. One hand gripped her wrist, the other planted by her head. The leather of her suit creaked softly.
She let out a startled, staticky gasp through the modulator. “Hey!”
“Just like old times,” Milo said, a grin spreading across his face. He remembered the ‘friendly wrestles’ they’d had before, back when he was just profiling her for a story on local vigilantes. It had been a game then, a way to test her reflexes, to build a tactile trust. “You’ve gotten faster. But your balance is still off on your left side.”
They had a friendly wrestle like old times. She bucked, twisting with a strength that belied her size, trying to reverse the pin. He countered, muscles straining, their bodies a tense, shifting puzzle on the rug. It was a silent, grunting dance, punctuated by the soft thuds of their struggle. He could feel the powerful coil of her thighs, the surprising strength in her narrow frame.
Which then started getting hot and heavy. The competitive struggle began to morph. His knee slid between her legs. Her resistance softened, turning into something less about escape and more about friction. The modulated breathing from her mask grew quicker, shallower. His own breath hitched.
It leads into hot sex, as he expected. The wrestling dissolved entirely. His mouth found the junction of her masked neck and shoulder, kissing the leather. Her hands, which had been pushing against his chest, now clutched at his shirt. He found the hidden seam of her suit with knowing fingers.
The mask stayed on. The voice modifier hissed static with every gasp. It was surreal, dangerous, and profoundly arousing. He took her there on the floor with a driven intensity, a celebration of his own cunning and access. She was both a superhero and, in this moment, utterly his. Another source perfectly played. Another victory in the dark.
The air in the apartment cooled, carrying the sharp, clean scent of ozone from the Mantis’s static-filled sighs and the musk of their sweat. Milo rolled onto his back beside her, the hard floor a dull pressure against his spine. The red light on her voice modulator blinked steadily in the dim room like a watching eye.
He trailed his fingers down the sleek, sweat-damp leather covering her stomach. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. He kissed a path down her body, over the molded plating, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath. She let out a long, contented sigh that crackled through the modulator. “I missed this,” she whispered, the digital edge softening. “I missed you.”
He nuzzled the sensitive spot where her masked jaw met her neck, inhaling the synthetic smell of the suit and the underlying hint of her shampoo—something fruity and young. “I missed you too,” he murmured into the leather. The lie was automatic, a comfortable reflex. He hadn’t thought of her once since their last encounter.
After a few silent minutes, she stirred. “I should… I have a poli-sci midterm at nine.”
“Of course you do.” He gave a low, affectionate chuckle, playing his part perfectly. He stood, offering a hand to help her up. She took it, her grip still strong. They dressed in the quiet dark, him in his discarded clothes, her sealing the hidden seams of her suit with practiced efficiency.
At the balcony door, she paused. He drew her into a final kiss, his hands cradling the back of her masked head. “Be careful out there,” he said, his voice thick with manufactured concern. “And we’ll catch up soon. Properly.”
“Yeah,” she breathed, the modulator barely disguising her hopeful smile. “Soon.” With a fluid motion, she was gone, vanishing over the railing into the neon-strung night.
Milo watched the empty space for a count of three, then turned back to his silent apartment. He poured two fingers of whiskey and opened his laptop. The Green Arrow footage awaited.
A few days later, he met Trisha at the quiet, book-lined wine bar near her office. He’d chosen the location for its air of sober finality. He arrived looking convincingly frayed, a strategic shadow under his eyes.
“You look tired,” she said, concern immediately smoothing her brow as she sipped her Cabernet.
“I am.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, the picture of a man burdened. “The fallout from the Fisk story… it’s a hydra. New leads, new threats. My editor’s leaning on me for a follow-up series, and the sources…” He let the sentence hang, shaking his head. “It’s getting dangerous, Trish. More than before.”
She set her glass down, her lawyer’s instincts battling with something more personal. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I can’t be… distracted.” He reached across the small table, his fingers brushing hers. “And you’re the biggest distraction I’ve ever had.” His smile was small, regretful, masterfully crafted. “I can’t focus. And if I can’t focus, people could get hurt. You could get hurt.”
She withdrew her hand, sitting back. The hurt flashed in her dark eyes before she locked it away. “So this is a tactical retreat.”
“It’s a pause. A necessary one.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to that intimate, convincing register she’d fallen for so many times before. “It’s the last thing I want. You have to know that.”
She studied his face—the sincere gray eyes, the weary set of his mouth. She saw the dedicated reporter, the man who’d partnered with her to take down a kingpin. She didn’t see the calculation. She never did. Her shoulders slumped, a minute surrender. “I know.”
He paid the bill, insisting. Outside on the damp sidewalk, the city sounds felt intrusive. He drew her into a tender kiss, his lips soft and lingering against hers, a promise he had no intention of keeping. He tasted the wine on her tongue and the faint, final trace of her hope.
“Take care of yourself, Milo.”
“You too, Trisha.”
He walked away, not looking back. She stood there for a long time, watching the traffic blur until the taillights melded into a crimson river. The memory of his mouth on her skin in her apartment, the frantic coupling against her window, the feel of his hands unwrapping her sari—it all rose up, vivid and crushing. It had felt like progress, like connection. Now, it just felt like another ending. She pulled her coat tighter against the chill, alone once again on the crowded street.
Meanwhile, Milo was already three blocks away, his step lighter. He pulled out his phone, bringing up the clearest frame he had of the Green Arrow. It was a frozen leap, a blur of forest green and tactical black. The resolution was poor, but the shape was unmistakable—a compact, powerful frame, with a notably rounded, athletic backside showcased by the tight leather suit. He’d seen amazing asses before—Trisha’s lush curves, Rachel’s pert athleticism, the Mantis’s petite perfection.
This one belonged to a mystery. An angry, volatile, undocumented mystery swinging from rooftops. His thumb traced the blurry outline on the screen. A slow, hungry smile spread across his face. This wasn’t just a vigilante. This was a raw, unbroken story. His best one yet.