Dayna didn’t blink. She reached into her trench coat and pulled out a single, tarnished silver coin—a relic from the job that had nearly cost her everything. She slid it across the bar. "Tell her Dayna is here. Tell her the vendetta just reached its expiration date."
Moments later, Dayna was led into the back office. Siri sat behind a desk carved from dark oak, her silhouette framed by the glowing city skyline. She didn't look surprised. dayna vendetta siri
Dayna stood at the mahogany bar, her reflection in the mirror sharp enough to cut. She wasn’t here for the drinks or the music. She was here for a debt that had been aging like bad wine for three years. Dayna didn’t blink
"Siri doesn’t see guests without an appointment," the bartender muttered, eyes fixed on a glass he was polishing. "Tell her Dayna is here
"I wondered when you’d come for the rest of it," Siri said, her voice smooth and dangerous.
The neon sign above the "Siri’s Lounge" flickered in a rhythmic, dying pulse, casting long shadows across the rain-slicked pavement. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and cheap secrets.
The bartender’s hand stopped. He looked at the coin, then at the steel in Dayna's eyes. Without a word, he signaled to a heavy-set man by the velvet curtains.