AN: Hello all :)

The Broker – May 7th – The Ceres Gallery, New York City

At approximately seven in the evening, Roy sat in the back of a limousine beside Denny Brosh, casually sipping a glass of twenty-five-year old scotch and thinking he'd rather be almost anywhere else. Their chat at the Palm Court had bought him some freedom, however it seemed the man could not be deterred, and he'd recently appointed himself supervisor of the entire operation. As planned, Brosh had intervened in their choice of broker, and it was clear he intended to exert his influence as often as possible if it meant retrieving the millions he felt owed. The fact that Roy had allowed for that eventuality made it no less irksome.

Buildings scuttled past the windows at a snail's pace, not unusual for bustling city streets, and he assumed the next four blocks might feel like two years. He tilted the glass merely to watch the amber liquid within, and when he spoke he let the slightest hint of irritation color his tone. "This is unnecessary. My New York contacts are reliable, Den. I never had a problem."

The other man smirked. "The woman you're about to meet is better than any of your friends from twelve years ago."

"You trust her?"

"Would you trust an ex-hitter?" Brosh finished his drink quickly, as only a man without a true appreciation of scotch would. "No...but she's discreet, has solid contacts, and she's connected to the Armstrong woman. That family's presence here is stronger than mine, and you'll need to be in her good graces if you want to pull this off."

"I think you've gotten more intelligent since I left." He raised his glass in a mock toast. "Congratulations, Den, you grew into job."

"You're one smug bastard and, frankly, I don't get it." His expression held a carefully reined anger. "You sent my father to prison, skipped town with my sister and nephew, and engineered the disappearance of millions of dollars. You're lucky I haven't shot you."

Roy shook his head. "No, you're lucky I'm here. You need money, and I'm the fastest way to get it. We both know it's the only reason I'm still alive." He sipped, a satisfied quirk to his mouth. "I just haven't figured out what kind of bind you're in, but I will."

His chuckle was cold, unnatural. "Always so fucking clever."

"I try." The limousine slowed in front of a late 1930s building with a white brick facade, the windows revealing a bright interior also painted white. Black lettering above the entrance read The Ceres Gallery, and when they stepped out of the vehicle he could see a foot-high riser through the double doors. Inside rows of chairs had been arranged before it, and on the walls hung paintings and professional photographs of varied size, each piece stunning. The majority of the seats had already been filled, and when they took two in the last row he asked, "Who is this woman?"

Voice low, Brosh replied, "Riza Hawkeye owns the gallery, and she's the foremost broker on the east coast. Her business consists mainly of acquisitions, anything from artwork and collectibles to more practical pieces."

Roy understood that, in this instance, practical actually meant tactical. "The gallery is acceptable, at least." He paused, flipping through the program he'd received at the door and realizing he would be attending the exhibition of a string quartet. "Let's not forget, I have the final say. I need to be able to work with the woman."

"I doubt you'll have a problem." The other man's tone implied that Hawkeye had other attributes of which he'd likely approve.

He felt the sudden urge to deck him, at which point he noticed the initial performance would be Bach's First Suite for cello, and he fought to keep his mien neutral for an entirely different reason. Waving the program to draw Denny's attention, he asked, "Care to explain this little soiree?"

"The gallery hosts an exclusive concert each year to raise money for Miss Hawkeye's philanthropic endeavors." He shrugged, as if he thought the entire affair to be little more than bullshit. "Expensive tickets, fancy champagne, and a few select pieces are auctioned at the end."

Roy nodded his comprehension, hiding the way his hand gripped the program as he watched Hawkeye herself appear from a corridor. Her hair was twisted into an off-center chignon, and her plum cocktail dress revealed the scar near her left shoulder, where the bullet had cut through muscle. Almost with pride was it displayed and, while his mouth fought to smile, he kept his expression one of mild interest.

As the blonde moved to stand beside Lan Fan, a young redheaded woman stood before the gathering, glancing at her employer for the signal to begin. "We at The Ceres Gallery would like to thank everyone for coming this evening. This is our third annual concert, and in just three years we've raised millions to help the city's at-risk youth." This announcement was followed by applause and, when it died down, she continued, "As usual, we don't wish to monopolize time better spent enjoying the performance. Therefore, it is my great honor to introduce the Autié String Quartet."

The musicians materialized from the hallway, and another polite round of applause began to welcome them. The din gradually tapered when the performers took their seats, and as the first notes filled the room he was taken back to that concert in Chicago. Though he knew she would not be able to reciprocate, he hazarded a quick glance in her direction, unable to help himself. Her features had softened, and he remembered it was during their late dinner that same evening that he'd first heard her truly laugh. He shook himself free of old memories, because he was still seated beside the somewhat murderous Denny Brosh, and his situation remained undeniably tenuous.

The concert itself lasted just shy of two hours, and the auction that followed progressed quickly, the bids made in rapid succession. Once the donated pieces had been purchased the guests milled about, perusing the artwork and enjoying the drinks that flowed freely. He and Brosh followed suit, exchanging more quiet insults, until at one point the other man pulled the redhead aside and asked to speak with the gallery's owner. While they continued to patiently circle the room, Roy found himself consistently aware of Hawkeye's movements, effortlessly picking her voice out of the conversations around him.

She finally joined them before the photo of a stone staircase, a shadowy passage hidden in one of the few truly medieval cities still standing. An archway opened to the right, perhaps leading to an invisible courtyard, and from the wall on the left a tree grew, curving gracefully and obstinately toward the sky. Hawkeye admired the image for several moments, her expression pleasant, but a hard glint appeared in her eyes when she looked at Denny. Still, she kept her tone light when she said, "I believe your order's in my office, Mr. Brosh. If you'd follow me."

Riza led them toward the hall from which she'd materialized earlier, pausing only to speak with her assistant. They stepped through the last door on the left, entering a well-lit space with a line of windows running behind the desk that he assumed were made from bullet-resistant glass. The walls here were also white, brightening the room further, and one was adorned with the painting of an orchid, done in shades of lavender and aubergine. She waved at a couple chairs in invitation as she took her place at the desk, and her demeanor turned significantly colder when she spoke. "Evidently I wasn't clear before, Mr. Brosh. I'm not interested."

"Yes, Miss Hawkeye. You're retired, I understand." Denny smirked. "I'm here on another matter."

She glanced at Roy, with not even a sliver of recognition. "Who's your friend?"

"His name's Nick, or Roy, take your pick. And we have a proposition for you." He produced his phone, unconcernedly sending a text while he spoke. "I plan to conduct business in this city. One weekend...high risk, high reward. We'll need a few things, and we'd like your help."

Riza's gaze shifted between them once. "What kind of business?"

"Are you familiar with the work of Nick Sylvaine?" Roy asked.

"One of the better grifters in recent memory." She tilted her head at Denny to add, "Sent your father to prison, if I remember correctly."

"Nick's an ass that way."

"You didn't even like your dad, and he had it coming."

"Sylvaine comes back for one weekend? I'm intrigued." Her lips started to curve, the emotion somewhere between amusement and shock as she came to a realization. "You want to run a three day Mallorca...in New York City."

Sharing a nonchalant look with Denny, he shrugged. "Is that a problem?"

"For some." Hawkeye leaned back. "My commission is twenty percent."

"Done," Roy replied with a nod. "I'm aware of your relationship with Ms. Armstrong, and we're prepared to offer her a cut as well."

"I take it you're satisfied." There was mirth in Brosh's voice, and he abruptly stood, making for the door. "I have business across town, so I'll leave you to get acquainted. Miss Hawkeye, it's been a pleasure." Halfway out the door, he added, "Nick...as always, fuck off."

Chuckling quietly, Riza crossed the room to watch the mobster's progress down the hall. "He really doesn't like you."

"It's nice that my predicament amuses you." He moved to stand behind her, gaze following hers down the corridor before falling to the exit wound near her shoulder. They were so close he could smell the mild bergamot notes of her perfume, and she subtly stiffened when he brushed a thumb over the scar. "You look gorgeous tonight."

She paced in the direction of the painting, her eyes again softening in a way that he loved. "Someone once suggested plum might be a nice color for me."

"I'm usually right." He followed her, hands in his pockets. "You'll get used to that."

"We'll see." Riza glanced at the painting before turning to face him, and he tensed when she hesitantly slipped her hand beneath his suit jacket. She skated her fingers over the scar tissue below his clavicle, feeling the ridges through the fabric of his shirt, and quietly said, "I'm sorry for putting you in danger."

"You don't have anything to apologize for." Roy traced his fingertips down her forearm, enjoying the way her lips curved even as she pulled away.

Finding his gaze, she asked, "What should I call you?"

"Brosh likes to call me Nick, trying to get a rise out of me..." He took her free hand, and gave a muted shake of the head. "...but I'm not that guy anymore."

Her thumb grazed the place where his wedding band used to reside. "Roy it is, then."

"And you?" he asked, tracing his finger along the heel of her hand. "I'd like to know your real name, if you're willing to share."

She nodded thoughtfully. "My birth name was Julia Blake, but I haven't been her for a long time."

"Riza it is, then."

When she caught his eye, it was with a little curve of the mouth. "We should get back to the party."

"Probably," he reluctantly agreed, relinquishing her hand in order to hold the door for her. "You know, there were a few pieces I might be interested in." They shared a discreet smile on their way down the corridor, and he added, "Maybe you could tell me about them."

AN: Thank you for reading, I hope you liked the chapter, and have a great day!