His pull was almost visually distorting. The boy’s eyes locked and tracked every movement.
The man sitting across the dinner table ran well-manicured thumbs beneath each black lapel, straightening the collar of his already impeccably fit jacket. Black hair spilled over slight but squared shoulders, sharp nose split the distance exactly between eyes so dark there were no irises.
Cold mouth, smiling.
Those black eyes directed his trapped gaze across the lush spread in one lavish sweep and hook. “Don’t wait for me. Eat.”
Yes, Silent Jack knew how to fill a platter for meetings of this sort. The boy had been eating here since he was six, strayed in off the street and pressed into service washing dishes after devouring the meal he’d been trying to thieve. 1918 had been close to the end of him, until earning that meal marked the start of something truly good. He’d washed dishes for Jack since, so finally dining with the man in the black suit seemed a natural progression.
Expectancy issued forth, pulling his attention, fork hanging in the air mid-bite. “So… the deal.” The man passed four fingertips across thumb in quick succession and flames sprang from his hand. He lit the dark brown cigarette still coalescing between his lips.
The boy stared at the spot the flames had been, now glowing ember and curling spirals of thick, green vapor. “I didn’t know you smoked.” As the words fell, unable to be recalled, he knew they’d cost him.
One sharp eyebrow became a blade, dividing past from future. “I’ve always smoked.”
