Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Noora has been tasked with bringing the whore home to Cruz. 

Eero is driving, of course. Noora much prefers motorbikes, the feel of the steel and leather against her, the purring engine. She loves weaving between cars, Vantaa blurring in her peripheral vision. It could be just her and the asphalt and the steady sound of the engine and the wind. 

In comparison, cars are boring. 

But Cruz’s doe-eyed little whore looks like he’d faint at just the thought of clinging to her back on the bike, and there isn’t a set of leathers for him to wear that are both available and the right size. Heavens forbid flying grit lacerates him, so she sighs to herself and climbs into the passenger seat, already lighting up a cigarette in anticipation of early morning traffic. 

Safe to say, by the time they reached Cruz’s club, Eero’s car would smell like an ashtray. 

But the whore - Joel, apparently, Cruz’s favourite - doesn’t so much as murmur a word of protest, or even wrinkle his nose like the other Cruz’s whore had once. It had been the Russian one, if her memory served, dour and delicate with pale eyes so empty it had been almost skin-crawling in how much he’d reminded her of Tammemets. 

But the whore had fled back to Russia, Kett had said in the meeting last year, giving the boss a knowing look. Mr Pöyhönen had returned it, his lips barely twitching with a smirk Noora hadn’t understood at the time and still thought was slightly beyond her. 

The Russian’s replacement was apparently an equally delicate thing, smaller and almost catlike. The brothers had seen him to and from the appointment, said he was unfailingly polite but very quiet and hard to get much of a read on. 

But, well, that one is gone to the grave along with the American. He doesn’t matter, not really. Neither of them do. It’s their deaths nearly four months ago that mattered more than them; the story Archie Cruz put out and the way Kett gets that strange glint in his eye every time the dead pair were brought up. 

But Kett is a slippery fuck, along with the rest of his lot. Shifting vast amounts of drugs and money throughout the Gulf and Baltic Sea does that, though he’s carried on Monroe’s legacy well enough to make ins with a few of the gangs in Sweden and Norway, acquitting himself on the Nordic stage. His great parties are fabulous, the casino a hub of light and music and chatter to be the talk of the city. Invitations always sound out throughout the Finnish underworld, though Archie never shows his face. Too busy trying to claw back what favour he had from LA, if not sheer spite that Kett has been outcompeting him for years. 

But Archie is a trapped rat, snivelling and complaining about a shitty lot and sorry affairs that only he was responsible for. He’d once had the opportunity to all but rule Helsinki with a gang who’d bested near everyone else, only he’d fucked it all up. A few years in LA had offered him a fresh start he’d also bungled, and now he was down on the ropes; a third rate drug smuggler and gun runner and flesh peddler. His former business partner is now his greatest rival, his former closest ally is dead and his son despises him, and Mr Pöyhönen’s business dealings in the Baltic has cut him out of that potential pathway. It’s a miracle he’s still in business, but men like him always find a way to come crawling back like cockroaches. 

Eero hits the gas, pealing away from Mr Pöyhönen’s apartment block and cutting through Noora’s musings. Johnny Cruz’s whore makes a tiny little noise, and in the wing mirror Noora can see him blinking in surprise at the suddenness. She suppresses a smile. 

This one, she’s heard, was the one who’d spent a night with Lalli and Kaunisvesi. Kaunisvesi had bragged about it whilst drunk at one of Kett’s parties, pouting that he hadn’t been able to actually put his cigarette out on Cruz’s favourite. Noora remembers feeling appalled, used to seeing Eero dish that sort of thing out on people Mr Pöyhönen had told him to interrogate rather than defenceless whores. 

But, well, Kaunisvesi is a hound straining at the leash for the scent of blood and always has been. It makes him dangerous and hated, and utterly unlike anyone else in their scene. 

Most people like that don’t last very long. Noora suspects he’s being reigned in by Vilhelm. 

It’s none of her business, and she doesn’t really care.

Once they reach Cruz’s club, Noora climbs out of the car to open the door for the whore. He climbs out, tall and slim, willowy in his almost criminally short skirt. Doubtless he’d been busy before Cruz had seen him to Vantaa, and there had been no time to change. Why it had been him, Noora can only try to fathom, but yet again, it’s beyond her pay grade to give a shit, and anyway, giving a shit means getting involved in far more than just patrols and guard details and interrogation. It means intrigue and drama, and all the high level shit she’s never once been interested in. Hanging on the boss’s arm when he accepts Kett’s party invites grants her more access to that sort of high life than she’s ever wanted.

Four hours later later, one of Archie’s snivelling thugs will blab to her about the missing pair as his partner does to Eero, and something will begin to turn in her mind; a mechanism slowly clicking as it circles into a position Noora won’t uncover until the next of Kett’s parties two weeks after that.

Before that, though, there is the drive back from Cruz’s club. The traffic is heavier now it’s closer to nine AM, the wintry dawn touching the sky and painting it pink and orange, and Noora sighs, lighting up yet another cig and lighting one for Eero too.

This is going to take a while.

At least her day is clear - or so she thinks - so she can go for a ride around the city. Pass it off as patrol whilst she clears her head of cobwebs and the threads of intrigue that always seem to linger after thinking about the Helsinki crime bosses.

It gets worse when she gets a call from the boss himself. By then it’s just before nine, late commuters scrambling in the traffic in a doomed effort not to be late to their tiny insipid jobs. It’s going to be even longer before they’re back at base, and Noora can’t remember longing for the bistro they use for a side-front quite as much as she does as she feels her phone vibrate in her pocket, sees the name on the screen.

By the time the call is over - not even ten seconds, Mr Pöyhönen simply giving her concise, clear orders and waiting for her to give the affirmative - it’s gotten even worse.

“We’re taking a detour,” she says, eyeing up the signs as they pass. They’ll have to turn off the main road sooner than she’d hoped, and she could just feel the day stretch out its limbs before her, turn its coat to show its true length. Unease gnaws in her gut, especially at the name the boss gave.

But he can be fickle, impulsive. It’s what’s kept his head above water this whole time, and containing it, working around it, is half of what he pays her for.

“To where?” Eero asks, not taking his eyes off the road.

Silently, she contemplates asking for a pay rise. She’ll go grey prematurely if she carries on at this rate, and whilst she does like the advantage being underestimated gives her, she’d rather keep the melanocyte decrease at bay so the underestimation doesn’t cross into being an outright insult. Extra pay means better salons, better hairdressers.

Perhaps better doctors, since all the nerves could lead her to a heart attack one day. At this rate, she’d be lucky if lung cancer claims her first.

“HEL.” She barely lets herself smirk at the stupid joke. It’s far beneath her, despite being the only thing other than her cigarette and Eero’s presence that keeps her sane. The parking lot is awful, and even though there’s the taxi rank and the pick-up point, it still means going there. She wants to ask what’s going on, not for intrigue or curiosity but so she can do her fucking job, but she can smell that it won’t be especially forthcoming if she tries. It’s why she didn’t during the phone call, after all. Years of work like this means she knows when to bother asking questions.

However close she’s pushed.

Eero sighs, and the front of the car clouds from the smoke. “Who are we picking up?”

Chapter Text

Once at the airport, they move to Häärijä’s car. Häärijä himself moves behind the wheel of Eero’s beamer, and Noora feels her good mood leave with the familiar sight, sat in the passenger seat of Mr Pöyhönen’s body double’s car. She can’t smoke here, which doesn’t improve things. The whole point of switching cars is that it’s a blank canvas; modern and swanky without appearing overly so from the outside. The reek of Marlboroughs would be a crack in the image Mr Pöyhönen wants to present, but with the deluge of people coming and going from the airport, Noora can’t very well climb out and smoke on the curb. Even though she knows who she’s looking for, recognises him by face and walk and demeanour. He’s good, and more than that, he’s excellent, so he’d find a way to see her smoking before he laid eyes on him, and a united front, a swift execution. 

So she drums her fingers on the door’s firm leather panel that overlays the airbag instead. He’s late, or at least he’s pretending to be. No doubt he’s somewhere high up, getting the lay of the land as he scouts them, checks in that careful, clinical way of his. The thought makes her flick her cigarette lighter with her free hand, though her cigs are away and all the motion does is make her crave the nicotine more.

But in half an hour or so they’ll be at the office and she’ll be free to smoke all she likes, pace like a caged lion, so she forces the craving away and turns the repetitive motion into a little tic to keep her grounded. Eero says nothing, aviators over his face to hide the fact he’s closed his eyes. He’s not asleep, would never be at a time like this, but appearances, and to be honest there’s not much better things for him to do other than heighten Noora’s unease.

It’s not the mission that’s got her so wound up, don’t get her wrong, and neither is it the last minute plans. Both are fairly normal, and even low-level for those of Noora and Eero’s rank. They’ve done this sort of thing so many times, and enough times in this car that it’s familiar. It’s not the situation that - to be wholly honest in a way she hates - upsets her.

It’s their passenger. A man who always chooses a flight despite living so close, because airports have higher security and he likes his business to reside on the edge of a knife. He toys with everything, not because everything is a game to him, but because he is brilliant, but in their line of work brilliance comes hand in hand with ruthlessness. Noora doesn’t trust him in the fucking slightest because to do so means she’s not doing her job.

Just as she thinks this, the first passenger from the latest flight walks by. A dad, heading a group of children ranging from four to fourteen. His wife wrangles the back, harried and scowling, her lank brown hair falling away from its bun. The sound of suitcases on asphalt rumble into the car, like churning gravel in a washing machine. It’s an unpleasant sound, but worse is pure footsteps as they pass the merc. It means those travelling extremely light, and for those like Noora, light travellers are the worst.

It’s only part of why she hates their guest so much. One of many factors she keeps close to her chest, because giving a shit is above her pay grade and giving a shit in the wrong way means her life. He is fickle and daring, and she’s met him enough times to know that however chaotic he seems, every single thing he does, from his facial expressions to his dress to the way he speaks, all of it is carefully constructed, considered. He is a gambler; an expert on odds and probability, and he gambles small in ways that have big ripples. It’s one of the worst kinds of business partner to have, since they spend so much time out in the cold, but pushing him away is also no true option. 

It’s also an outcome that Archie no doubt opted for, if their guest made any overtures at all towards him before his turn became so obvious. Johnny Cruz is far happier with smaller pickings, preferring to stay local, Vilhelm much the same, but it’s Kett who’s more likely to eye up outside operators. He’s the closest thing in Finland Mr Pöyhönen has to a rival, so they make careful efforts to keep each other sweet and not step on each other's toes. Noora has always assumed it’s because they’re both from Vantaa, though she knows something else lurks under the surface, because it always does. Duplicity is second nature for those in their profession.

More people pass the car. Another family, this one of only four, a lone man, two more groups of people - she believes them to be tourists - and then a lone blonde woman in a black ankle-length trench coat and big sunglasses, her elegant luggage dragged behind her as if the latest flight was the one she truly stepped off of and not just a smokescreen. Noora makes no move to hail her despite knowing her well and even liking her somewhat. Erika isn’t their guest.

Their guest finally appears fifteen minutes after the next flight lands. She knows he’s been there the whole time, because of course he has. He steps out from the airport, a small suitcase rolling behind him. Behind that is his secretary; a bubbly young woman in her early to mid twenties Noora likes a hell of a lot more than her boss himself.

She waves at them through the cracked window despite the fact that the guest doesn’t need her to, a simple gesture that catches the guest’s razor-sharp attention. Appearances, and she will be unfailingly proper.

Their guest barely turns to his secretary. His expression doesn’t change as he speaks - his face a study in impassivity and soullessness Noora finds skin crawling - but his secretary’s brightens in delight.

Noora decides she’s definitely missed Miss Milova’s girlish enthusiasm. She was born into this life, and she’s worked for Mr Pöyhönen’s guest since she turned nineteen. Her confidence and easy-going charm, however much it’s meant to set Noora at ease, does.

Although it’s less to do with her herself and more to do with the fact that the guest intends to have a witness. Miss Milova - Alika - means the guest isn’t doing his total chaotic subterfuge thing; he has a purpose to be here. Alika will relay it, or at least part of it, because it’s meant to be public.

Or at least, his arrival in Finland is meant to be. There’s going to be more because there always is, and Noora makes a mental note to ask about it so she can know what capacity she’s needed in.

Sometimes the boss gets ever so lost in his own head.

Tomas Tammemets slings his suitcase into the trunk and gets into the back seat of the car in that nerve-wringing, irritatingly languid manner of his as Noora runs through her thoughts and grinds her teeth so hard she distantly wonders if it’s possible to shatter them. Alika follows her boss, her smile wide and glassy and full of her usual friendliness.

“Welcome to Helsinki, Mr Tammemets, Miss Milova. I hope you had a pleasant flight. Mr Pöyhönen awaits you,” Noora says in an astonishingly level voice. She doesn’t dare to meet Alika’s gaze in the rearview mirror so she doesn’t, instead focuses her gaze on the road ahead as if she’s as truly detached as she pretends to be as Tammemets hums his approval as if this is all beneath him; as if everything is beneath him apart from his pretty secretary.

Noora can only hope her boss has gotten enough sleep. Cruz’s best must be more than good to rise to the surface of Helsinki’s underworld as fast or as sharply as he had  years ago and maintain his position, but if he’s kept Mr Pöyhönen awake too long everyone will fall like dominoes. Noora can only pray they spent half the night sleeping together in the most literal sense.

Why did the boss decide to fuck a rival’s favourite escort all night when one of the most dangerous men in mainland Europe was arriving in Finland before midday? But again, Noora’s paygrade denoted a hard line in the questions she asked, so she doesn’t even chew her lip. With luck the boss has had some sleep and some coffee as well; enough to fill a swimming pool. With luck, he knows what he is doing.

Who’s she kidding? Tammemets is dangerous for a reason; despite every past encounter Noora can’t ever trust him. Either he’s enacting schemes here or he’s about to inform Mr Pöyhönen he’s about to enact something; either way his chaos, his need to gamble will echo across Northern Europe in a way Noora already fears will be undesirable.

As they drive, their constant companion is the hum of the merc’s engine. Alika murmurs little somethings every so often; the now thankfully smooth traffic, the clear sky as if the sky is any different in Tallinn, that sort of thing. Something to ease the tension, and because she’s grown up in this world, it works. The journey seems to take a lot less time than Noora had sourly thought, but the sour unease in her gut hasn’t diminished at all by the time she has to open the car door and lead Tammemets inside. She forces her face to stern disinterest and stands aside as he and his secretary climb out of the car, their suits carefully pressed and unyielding as they move. Alika’s is powder blue, Noora now notices, bright and fun, whilst her boss’s is a dark blue with a white shirt and blood-red tie. His long hair hangs straight like it too was severely styled despite the past few hours in airports, his pencil moustache carefully trimmed and primped.

Eero moves to take their belongings, waiting a polite pause for Tammemets to nod in assent once he’s popped the trunk open. He is silent, as silent as Noora, as silent as their guests, and it’s a silence that won't be broken apart from a quiet sir until they pass into the lobby because it can’t be, it’s neither Noora nor Eero’s duty to. She moves ahead to open the door for them, her gaze cast down to the swept paving stones, her face as blank as a kabuki mask. The Estonians sweep past her, Alika murmuring a quiet thank you. Noora feels her eyes flick to her as she says it, but she only inclines her head. Now’s not the time to indulge.

Eero follows them. Once he’s through the doors, she moves so the outside can be shut out by the simple mechanism of hinges.

Eero is already moving over to the elevators to take Tammemet’s and Alika’s belongings to their suite. He’s joined by Juuso, who’s suited and aviatored up despite the early hour, Jukka next to him. Juuso’s presence is a tonic for Noora’s nerves, knowing his height and impassive face and concealed but still clear firearm does a lot that blustering can’t. She and Eero weren’t armed apart from the Glock pistol in the glove compartment, and despite not needing to be so armed before any meeting took place, she can’t help but yearn for a weapon. Tammemets brings out the worst in her, especially after half an hour of shitty traffic with no cigarettes to ease her vile mood. It's nothing she can help and everything she can suppress.

Within the lobby, it looks just like any swanky office building or business hotel. There’s some seating - black leather sofa with electric green cushions, glass-topped coffee tables before them - and a receptionist’s welcome desk, except instead of a receptionist sat behind it, there’s an egg.

Noora chews the inside of her mouth so she doesn’t smirk. Jaakko hates the egg comments.

His face is professional and impassive as the Estonians walk over. “Welcome to Helsinki,” he says once they’re close enough for him not to have to raise his voice. “I trust you had a good flight?” As if Noora wouldn’t have already shown courtesy. She resists rolling her eyes.

Tammemets takes to his courtesy more than he took to her; another reason she doesn’t like him. 

It’s also the first words he’s spoken since he got in the car. “It was smooth,” he says. “So was the drive.”

He says no more, and Noora can only imagine the blank look on his face is telling Jaakko not to push.

So instead Jaakko invites them to freshen up before the meeting, and informs them that Jukka will see them to their suite. Jukka nods from the elevator when they look, suited and booted like any good bodyguard, and then it’s over. The Estonians head to their suite like good guests, and Noora can resume her favourite pastime of pretending to be a chimney pot.

She waits until Eero and Juuso return. They take the elevator down to the parkade, and as soon as the doors open to let them spill out, she lights a cigarette for all three of them. Häärijä parked in Eero’s favourite spot, so the car is right where she predicts it will be.

“To the bistro?” she says. The question is a mere formality. It’s where they always go.

Juuso nods. Eero doesn’t need to reply, so he doesn’t bother, simply unlocks the car and opens the door. Noora opens the passenger door before Juuso can and lets the familiar waft of nicotine wash over her as she climbs in.

Chapter Text

The bistro isn’t open yet. It’s not due to be for another couple of hours, so there’s no staff around. Noora leads the way around the back to the staff entrance, her boots carving tracks in the light snow, and then past it to the entrance to the basement. She unlocks the door and opens it, flicking the light switch as she descends.

It’s not until she tosses herself onto the couch in their office that her shitty mood finally goes. Juuso takes the office chair; Eero takes a folding chair and sits backwards on it, his legs around the back, crossing his arms on the top of the backrest so he can set his chin down in pensive thought.

He’s the first to speak.

“Odd that the boss had one of Cruz’s lot for the night before the meeting,” he grunts around his cigarette. It’s not especially subtle, because Eero isn’t an especially subtle person.

Noora takes a puff on her cig. “Maybe Cruz wants to make connections abroad,” she says. “They had a meeting before he booked the escort.” It had followed the first one, when Mr Pöyhönen had visited Cruz in a rare trip to Helsinki.

Eero hums, thinking about it. “Surprised he didn’t side wholly with Kett, then. They’ve collaborated a few times over the years, and Kett is more local.”

Noora agrees for a moment. Then she frowns. “Mr Pöyhönen has been in meetings with Kett too,” she says. Cogs turn, but the image coming into being in her mind disintegrates before she can see it.

Something is going on. It has been for a while, clearly, but now the boss is potentially pulling in his international connections for it. Either because they’re going to be participating in it, or spectating. Noora’s not sure which one it is, but she needs to know. She’s become Mr Pöyhönen’s favoured plus one for nights when being a lone wolf made him stick out in ways he doesn’t wish to, and if that pattern continues she’ll inevitably wind up in conversations she knows nothing about with people it’s dangerous to be on the back foot around.

 So she asks in the elevator, standing next to Mr Pöyhönen that evening as they go to meet the Estonians for dinner. It almost slips her mind, because she’s had such a long day. Between returning Cruz’s escort and picking up the Estonians, and then a surprise mission tracking two of Archie Cruz’s thugs to interrogate and discovering a not-so-dead whore in the process, wanting to ask about being let in to the politics a bit more feels small and inconsequential.

But she asks, calmly and politely, and Mr Pöyhönen smiles. It’s utterly devoid of warmth. “Tommy hasn’t told me yet,” he says. “But I think he’s had suspicions about something, and has come here to see if he’s correct. You did well for me, today. I think we’ll all enjoy the dinner conversation.”

His praise stays with her all evening, nestling in her chest alongside the reflection that Archie Cruz has managed to make himself the centre of attention in Finland yet a-fucking-gain.

In the restaurant she sits opposite Alika, glad that she can see the door from her place in their dining alcove. They chatter throughout the bread course and the starters; idle gossip to get the conversation flowing. Nothing is especially scandalous or high level, but by the time they’re finishing their main courses and beginning to consider dessert, Mr Pöyhönen has smoothly turned the topic to Archie. They’ve already circled around him twice, alighting on how odd his new favourite whore had apparently been during a recent night out and his latest semi-public spat with Johnny Cruz, but then it circles around to him a third time. Tammemets makes a comment about the Central European stage, shifting alliances in the Low Countries and the surrounding region that had caused a few people to go dark and not resurface. It’s carefully calculated, none of it especially revelatory, but it gives Mr Pöyhönen the opportunity Noora wonders if he’s been waiting for all day.

“We’ve had our fair share of that lately,” he says, sipping wine. It’s a light, sweet white, as close to the opposite of Noora’s pinot noir as it’s possible to get. “Well, Helsinki has. I can only commend Miss Louhimo here for her work today unravelling some of it.”

Two pairs of eyes turn to Noora. Alika’s and are brown and warm, and full of surprise. She knows what Noora’s job is, but Noora supposed it sounds a lot more menial than it really is. It’s not glamorous like hers is, nor often especially exciting.

But Tammemets’s eyes are appraising like he’s seeing her for the first time. Under the dim restaurant lights they’re as cold as a shark’s. His expression barely moves, his mouth curved up slightly in the hints of a smile.

Or a smirk.

“Oh?” he says. She knows it’s not meant for her.

“Yes, yes.” Mr Pöyhönen sips more wine. “It’s a more interesting story told by her, though. I couldn’t do it justice.”

Noora glances at him, surprised by the permission. His eyebrow barely raises in wordless invitation, and she turns and faces the Estonians again. She launches into the events of the day ever since she tracked Archie’s men to the bar opposite the bistro, finding herself glad on Alika’s behalf that they saved this part of things until now. To those who keep their hands pretty clean, there’s nothing like conversations surrounding torture and murder to put one off their dinner.

Tammemets absorbs her words with silence, his gaze almost unblinking. He waits a beat after she finishes - she omitted letting the Estonians know why Archie sent men snooping - before opening his mouth, and she thinks it’s the first time he’s ever directly spoken to her. “What makes you inclined to believe him?”

“His accomplice told my partner the same thing. And if it’s true, it puts some things in a new light, explains them.” Kett’s weird behaviour, that glint in his eye. “Obviously there’s a chance it’s lies, but Archie Cruz is losing too many of his people to the grave to kill them himself, especially his West Coast bodyguard and his favourite escort. It’s too much of an escalation.” Despite the fact that Helsinki had seemingly swallowed the lie. Probably because they were bored of thinking about him.

“A favourite escort would have a lot to say,” Tammemets says. He’s not disagreeing with her.

Noora inclines her head. “He’s been hemorrhaging people for years. But, well, we brought up his current favourite earlier. I’d be curious to hear what the not-so-dead one has to say, and I’d imagine most of Helsinki does. Archie’s been one of the biggest thorns in everyone’s side for years now, and definitely the biggest laughing stock.” Perhaps it’s why his captured thugs let the information slip; perhaps he thought it could be worth letting them live. But no. She takes a sip of wine and sets her glass down. “I think the undead duo escaped rather than were killed, but their old master saves a lot of face by putting out that he’s crossed that one particular line.” She holds his gaze for a moment for dramatic effect, cool and calm.

Tammemets doesn’t blink. He merely stares at her like he’s a lizard in its tank for several long seconds.

Then he does blink. It’s accompanied by him steepling his hands together, long fingers pointed skywards. His almost-smile deepens slightly, as if he’s amused by her. 

But it’s his words that make her almost jump. “You’re correct,” he says. “The American arrived in Tallinn by boat a week after his ‘death’ and left that same day from the airport on a flight to LAX. I’d imagine he won’t leave the states for a long time. The escort never showed up.”

Noora exchanges a glance with her boss. “He got the ferry?”

There’s only two crime lords in Helsinki from whose territory the American could have left by. Noora thinks of Kett’s haughty amusement, and realises she knows which one. 

It means he almost certainly knows what happened to the escort, too. But he doesn’t give out secrets for free, so Noora dismisses that train of thought before she can even think to ask Mr Pöyhönen about it. 

“The last one of the day,” Tammemets says. “Still, he’s lucky his old boss has no Tallinn connections, otherwise that might not have gone so well for him.” 

Ah. So Tammemets had once made overtures towards Archie, and Archie had turned him down, so he’d been frozen out from the Baltics. Noora suppresses a smug smile and chooses to ignore the implication that had Tammemets allied with Archie, he’d have handed the American right back over to him.

“You think we should track down the escort and speak to him?” she asks, tentative. 

Tammemets gives a lazy shrug. “If he could be found. Now he’s cut and run, there’s a chance Cruz wants him dead for real, and is trying to do something about it. Maybe he even has done already, though I imagine he was still alive at the time the American got to Tallinn. But that was almost four months ago, and a lot can change in four months.”

The understatement of the fucking century, and they all know it. Tammemets is the biggest shit-disturber in this part of Europe. 

And he’s just revealed he has a piece of leverage over Archie; information. Yep, he’s a participant in whatever’s going down. Noora’s going to have her hands full for the foreseeable future.

“A lot can change in just a few weeks,” Mr Pöyhönen says quietly. “We’ll keep eyes on the situation.”

Tammemets’s eyebrow barely twitches. “As will I, you understand.”

I understand you’ll do a hell of a lot more than just that. Noora finishes her plate and sets her knife and fork together neatly, giving her blandest smile. The conversation shifts into other matters, more low level stuff. Alika joins in occasionally, and by the end of it Noora could almost forget what had transpired. 

Almost. 

But Archie’s two thugs are dead or soon to be, and as Eero chauffeurs her and Mr Pöyhönen back to his place, the Estonians behind them, she can’t help but ruminate.

“I’m almost surprised Mr Tammemets didn’t ask to speak to Archie’s bastards,” she says. “Or at least watch as one of us does again before the cleaners deal with them. Otherwise he’s just going off my word.”

Mr Pöyhönen hums in consideration. “I trust you, and my word carries weight,” he says after a moment. “Lies on our end of things would only spoil our arrangements.”

A good point. But Tammemets has always been so dismissive of Noora and her crew in the past. His attention has always been one of the last things she’s ever sought out, and she’s good at being a wallflower, so it’s hardly surprising. To him, she’s just the head of a bruiser crew and a familiar face in Mr Pöyhönen’s oft-used welcoming committee.

Then she wonders if the amount of violence and death she’s dealt out means she’s a familiar face in Mr Pöyhönen’s farewell committee as well, but ultimately decides the joke is beneath her.

“He must have given you some valuable information for you to allow me to tell him that,” she says. “Archie’s a pain, I know, but that’s Finnish business, even if the American left Europe via Tallinn.” Tammemets would have kept eyes on the man all day to make sure he wasn’t a threat. He kept eyes at the ports and the airport, and a suited and booted American fresh off the boat from Helsinki would have rung every alarm bell in that man’s mind.

And then he’d sat on the information for four months, no doubt with one eye glued to Helsinki to watch the chaos.

“The Flying Dutchman’s on the move again,” her boss informed her, cutting through her thoughts with something like regret in his eyes.

Noora blinked. Whatever Tammemets had discussed with Mr Pöyhönen in their morning meeting, it hadn’t been that. Klein was the only person standing between Tammemets and the dubious honour of being known as the biggest shit-disturber in the whole of Europe. He’d collaborated with both Mr Pöyhönen and Tammemets in the past, the usual brand of small things that caused huge ripples, but he’d gone dark after his last stunt six months ago, pincered on the Czech border. Europe’s underworld had assumed he was dead until the silence dragged on, because someone that high profile didn’t die in obscurity. Someone would want to claim the assassination.

And thusly it was so. He’d escaped and gone into hiding, disappearing so well only Tammemets had been able to get eyes on him.

“It was a collaboration? When he went dark?” she askes.

She’s correct, but this time there’s no smile from him. “He knew it was a risk,” Mr Pöyhönen says instead. “One of us would always have had to take the fall from it, and he chose to sacrifice himself because he has no underlings like we do. There’s ripples, and then there’s the fallout of either myself or Tommy dying or disappearing. Better a lone agent than a lynchpin. But the silence had me hopeful, especially when there was no move against us. Knowing is a relief.”

“And my lot and the eggs are too good at our jobs for an attempt on your life to be quiet and successful,” Noora says. It’s something she’s prided herself on for years.

Yet again, she is correct. “Something I take great thanks in,” Mr Pöyhönen says. “But Tommy hasn’t come all this way just to tell me Klein escaped. He’s bringing me a gift. It’ll be overnight, will arrive with the day’s fish catch for the bistro.”

Noora sits a little bit straighter at that. Tammemets was shipping someone across the Gulf in the night, and judging by the sharp look on Mr Pöyhönen’s face, they weren’t a guest. She folds her hands together neatly and asks what time they need to be at the bistro.

Mr Pöyhönen smiles. “I’ll have all of you there. Half eight should be fine. My first meeting of the day is at ten, but as long as Mikke’s in the office, we can manage it by phone.”

An hour and a half to do what their crew do best. It’s a daunting prospect, especially since she knows Tammemets is going to be present. With some men, an hour and a half barely scrapes the surface before they talk.

But she’s professional, so she nods along. “We’ll be there, boss,” she says.

Mr Pöyhönen is delighted.

Chapter Text

The morning dawns cold and blustery. Noora smokes in the car, waiting for half eight to tick around. Juuso’s in the seat behind her as per usual and Eero’s munching on some unholy mash made up of scrambled eggs and avocados behind the wheel; the brothers brought Pyry with them in their Volvo. Jaakko and Jukka brought Mr Pöyhönen and Tammemets over in the third car; a stylish Audi. It’s already parked up, the eggs in the front seats, but of course the two crime lords got here early. They’ll be down in the basement with the guest of dishonour, discussing plans and whatnot.

At eight twenty eight, she stubs out her cigarette and opens the car door. The wind bites her through the little slip between the sleeve of her leather jacket and her gloves, so she tugs her gloves up higher, frowning. Eero and Juuso follow her out of the car, and Juuso puts out his cigarette too before they follow her towards the basement door.

Above them all, the sky is grey and heavy with the promise of snow. It snowed overnight, so the deliverymen had had to clear the parking area, and Noora sighs on behalf of the morning staff who will no doubt have to clear it all again before they open for the day. Shovelling snow has always been something she’s found miserable and tedious.

Within a minute they’re all on the stairs, the door shutting behind them. By eight thirty on the dot Noora knocks on the door to the office.

“Enter,” Tammemets’s voice calls. Noora suppresses the irritation at having to be let into her own fucking office and opens the door. The two crime lords are inside, Mr Pöyhönen on the sofa by the computer and Tammemets at the computer chair, long legs stretched out before him like he’d been spinning himself to and fro in an approximation of an anticipatory tic. His suit is black, and he wears gloves.

“Good morning Mr Tammemets. Mr Pöyhönen,” Noora begins. “You requested my crew be present last night?”

Mr Pöyhönen’s smile is amused. “Tommy came to visit us ahead of the arrival of a gift,” he says. “Ones that require your expertise.”

As if he brought them for me. But they all know Noora is more like the box cutter to the gift’s box. Duplicity and riddles, gang politics. She puts on her politest smile. “Interrogation or lesson?” she asks. How much am I allowed to know?

Tammemets shares a look with Mr Pöyhönen. Then he shrugs and looks back to her. “There’s two of them,” he says, voice flat with disgust. “They’re the ones who tracked Klein. It’s taken so long to find them because they appear to be lone agents. Freelancers. I’d be interested if they tell you anything different than what they told me. Klein has many enemies, but he’s an ally. You don’t leave allies in the cold.”

Noora digests his words, choosing to ignore the neatly placed threat for now. “He can’t become the hunter, but you can.” 

One corner of Tammemets’s mouth twitched in the threat of a smile. “His and my aims align. It’s not something the Low Countries and Central Europe like.”

And his bruisers couldn’t get the job done. 

Noora has met some of them before. They were brutal, efficient, but both those traits in a person left them with a dangerous tendency to impatience.

But Noora’s methodical, and she likes the violence as much as she likes getting answers. And her crew is the favourite of the boss. It’s discreet, and Tammemets really wants answers. For a moment she’s almost surprised Klein isn’t here himself.

But that would be giving too much away. Klein is almost certainly in Tallinn, awaiting answers and lying low. She sets him aside in her mind. “Is there anything we’re not to ask?” she asks next. “Avenues to disregard?” Though they could hardly help it if the freelancers gave away what Tammemets was not saying.

The man’s threat to smile deepens. “I’ll redirect you if I need to,” he said.

Very well. With nothing else left to ask, she folds her hands before her in a way that reminds her of the waitressing job she had as a teenager and softly insinuates they can start as soon as Tammemets is ready. Then they collect their tools of choice, and Noora feels a hell of a lot better with her pipe in her hands. It bears only the merest hints of getting dented, but yesterday she’d really gone for it on Archie’s thug.

Once in the first interrogation room - a dismal cellar streaming with damp and lit by a single naked bulb from the middle of the ceiling, stinking of bleach - she takes in the freelancer tied to the chair in the same place as Archie’s thug was yesterday. He’s bland, of medium size, his dishevelled clothes nondescript. There’s a sack over his head, but he’s clearly awake, head turning this way and that as Tammemets and Mr Pöyhönen slowly walk around him, circling before taking seats behind him. Juuso and Pyry flank them.

Noora stays by the door with the brothers, catching Eero’s eye. He can have the first crack.

He takes a leisurely path over to the freelancer. He too circles them, coming to a halt directly behind them before he rips the sack off their head to reveal one of the most unremarkable looking men Noora has ever seen, his face twisted with petulance and derision. There’s a wince, like he ripped out some hair with the motion, but then Eero reaches into his pocket and retrieves his lighter, flicking it open. 

The sound is unmistakable. The freelancer squirms minutely, his confidence visibly wilting. Eero’s face twitches in a smirk, but he resumes his bored mask as he circles around the freelancer. He does it a few times, taking his time despite the fact they’d been told they didn’t have all day, sizing the man up. The freelancer pulls up an expression of defiance, what the fuck do you want written across his face so deliberately Noora knows it’s fake. He’s bruised and bloodied from his time in Tallinn, and maybe he thinks he’ll get away with this in silence again, but Noora knows her crew. They can do this.

Eero eventually crouches in front of the freelancer. He reaches for the man’s hand where it lies, palm side down to wrap fingers around the end of the armrest he’s been tied to. Eero eases them free. He glances up at the freelancer’s face for barely a moment before moving his lighter underneath his newly bared palm with a knife-like smile.

The freelancer tries to hold out. He really does. He struggles but keeps as quiet as he can, but there’s panic in his eyes like he knows he can’t do this, not after everything else. He chews his lip, his breath coming so steadily it’s forced. 

He’s whimpering within thirty seconds. His breath comes faster, little gasps of air, and sweat is beading on his forehead before a minute has ticked by. 

Then he cracks. “What do you want?” he asks, trying harder to tear away from Eero’s grip. In English, the international language. His accent is Germanic, but still still isn’t much of a help in identifying him or his hirer. 

Eero’s face is a mask. “To hurt you,” he says in the same language. “See, we both know you have information some very important people want. But I deal in pain, and it doesn’t matter to me if you talk or not. It doesn’t matter to anyone in here. All your silence and uselessness means is a longer cleanup for us.”

The freelancer drums his feet on the floor as he tries and fails to wriggle free, his jaw so tight it might as well have been fused shut in an effort not to scream. Eero’s lighter is still burning bright under his palm, and Noora can only imagine the pain. 

He still doesn’t talk. 

Eero looks unbothered. He cranes his neck to the side, joints popping. “Why are you protecting them? Do you think you matter to them? You’re in our clutches now. They can’t help you, and they’re certainly not going to rescue you.”

Because if their master was interested in saving them, if only to save his own skin, he’d be nosing around Tallinn. Tammemets deals in secrecy above all else, so their hirer would have no idea they’d left Estonia. 

And maybe that was why his people hadn’t cracked the freelancers yet. They’d run out of time, or come close, felt Klein’s enemies breathing down their necks and decided to move until they had what they wanted. 

And Tammemets had arrived via the airport as he always did, all but advertised his arrival, perhaps in a ploy to throw them off further.

She wonders if the freelancer realises he’s fucked. Something in his face changes, and Eero steps back. He lights a cigarette, unhurried and calm, and blows out a plume of smoke. That seems to do more to unnerve their prisoner. He shakes his head, a tiny motion pleading no as Eero prowls close again, this time capturing a finger and holding his lighter so close it’s a miracle the flame doesn’t lick the man’s skin with an expression like he’s enjoying himself. 

The freelancer whimpers, struggling again, but Eero’s stronger than him. He muses aloud whether he should escalate to gasoline, siphon some from the car, his voice contemplative.

It’s a risky thing to say. They’ve never resorted to that, never had to before. The bistro above them might be a front, but the staff and customers are legit, and the stench of petrol is so recogniseable. It’s too risky.

But none of their victims ever know that, and Eero never promised he’d actually set the guy on fire, so Noora says nothing.

Twenty minutes later, Eero is on his second cigarette and the freelancer is babbling nonsense. Tammemets looks almost bored, like he’s heard it before and knows the guy is just stalling.

Noora and her crew, on the other hand, have been playing along with the freelancer, nodding along and pretending to swallow every lie he spouts.

Because the city he gives is Helsinki, and the name he offers is Kett’s.

Everyone in the room knows better.

“What issue could Kett possibly have with Mr Klein?” Eero asks, his voice a lazy drawl as he exchanges a glance with Noora.

This should be good. Noora suppresses a smirk.

The freelancer licks his lips before he speaks, grey eyes bright with stupid hope. “Klein’s dealings disrupt international shipping,” he says. The best lies are seasoned with truth, after all, and Klein has admittedly been doing that for the past couple of years. “Kett works with the Swedes and has ties to Norway, you see.” Another truth. “Klein might not be a danger to him yet, but Kett’s clever, one of the true masterminds up in the north.” A third truth, though one that’s potentially not something he’d have said out loud had he known who was behind him.

And now we see the lie he’s woven. 

Indeed, Eero quirks a brow. “Kett acted preemptively, you’re saying?”

“Yes! Yes, that’s it.” The freelancer nods eagerly. His eyes are bright and wide as he waits for Eero to accept his story, holding his breath for mercy that Noora knows isn’t coming.

“It’s an interesting story, I’ll give you that.” Eero begins to smile again. It’s not a nice one. The freelancer’s hopefulness dissipates. “And you raised some very good points. Truths, aren’t they? Kett’s clever and ambitious, and Klein is a shit-disturber. It makes sense that they’d end up against each other one day. But there’s some problems with that. Do you know what they are?”

The freelancer doesn’t answer. Eero doesn’t care, counting off points on his fingers. “Kett’s not stupid enough to get involved in Central Europe shit when he’s happy as he is working with the Scandis. Nothing Klein has done has done much to impact the Baltics, since his two biggest allies are Baltic. He’d be shooting himself in the foot if he did that, regardless of whether those two actually bore the brunt of the impact of his actions or not. And Kett doesn’t hire outsiders to do his dirty work for him. The only Baltic who does gets the outsiders on his payroll first so they’re under his thumb. But still. Thank you. You’ve helped us narrow the suspect list down. Maybe it’ll be over for you now. Maybe we can send you running back to your master with some achy fingers and a souvenir.” He lets the prospect hang in the air for a couple of moments, blowing out smoke and taking another drag. “Or not. I know my friends are interested in getting involved, and I’m getting kinda bored.” He looks up, sharing a look with the brothers that makes him smile more and the freelancer whimper. Then he looks back down. “It’s going to be hard, I know. What’s going to happen next is really going to suck for you. But I want you to remember me.” He takes a final drag on his cig, one hand snaking around the man’s head to hold him by the hair, and Noora knows what he’s about to do. “So here’s a parting gift.” 

Then he stubs his cigarette out on the freelancer’s face, on the plump part of his cheek just below his eye. The man screams, thrashing against his grip, but Eero doesn’t back away until they can all smell singed skin and there’s no chance the man isn’t going to be scarred. 

Indeed, there’s an angry red mark on the freelancer’s face. It’s singed, black around the edges, and faintly smoking. The freelancer catches his breath, his screams petering out into whimpers. 

Janne and Joona replace him. One brother bears a towel, the other a big ten litre bottle of water. Noora carried the other one in, so they’re well stocked up. It’s not a sight the freelancer especially wants to see, the cogs visibly ticking in his brain. He babbles and pleads, useless mewling, but Joona just lays the towel over his face and holds it in position. “Last chance to tell us the truth and stay dry,” he says, playing as bored and detached as Eero had. It’s a ruse to make him choke. Janne has already lifted the bottle, hefting it with practiced ease, so as the freelancer tries to spit out more lies he’s instantly doused with water without the chance to take a breath. He chokes, thrashing, but Joona is strong too, so there’s no avoiding the water.

Ten seconds pass before he’s allowed to cough up water and try to breathe again. They don’t let him get a word in, just waterboard him again, and again, and again. Soon, water runs across the floor, soaking it. They’ll have to turn the heaters on when they’re done to give it a chance to dry. Mould might add to the foreboding atmosphere down here, but it’s also bad for the lungs, and they’re all smokers. It would hardly do for them to get ill from what they dish out.

In the end, the freelancer cracks. In between sobbing breaths he tells them he and his accomplice were hired by the Old Guard, the old-school Austrian faction with strong ties stretching between the Low Countries and the Adriatic Sea. From the look on Mr Pöyhönen’s face, it’s no more than he and Tammemets had been expecting. Klein used to be a part of them, though rumour had it not through any choice of his own. He’d cut and run, and done fairly well off of it, all things considered.

But now it’s time to move onto the second freelancer. Eero ends things, addressing the two gangsters behind their soaked and snivelling worm. “You want us to take care of these two or do the deed yourself? Or shall we call in the cleaners?”

Tammemets speaks, gaze burning like a frozen star as the freelancer shudders, eyes fixed on Eero. “Klein can’t be here, so it’s up to us.”

In response, Juuso offers his switchblade. Tammemets takes it and walks right up to the freelancer. He slits his throat without any further ado, and blood sprays out in a glossy red arc. Not a drop of it lands on him.

“Let’s see what the other one has to say,” he says flatly.

Chapter Text

Noora takes the lead on this one. Her pipe drags behind her; a metallic grating sound against the concrete. The second freelancer squirms, and she smiles darkly.

Just like with Archie’s pathetic henchman yesterday morning, she’s going to enjoy this.

He tries for defiance first, same as his dead accomplice. Noora’s soul is warmed by the effort. Breaking them is her favourite part. Archie’s wretch hadn’t held up very well, and it’s been a while since she’s needed to crack some skulls, so this is going to make up for what she’s missed out on.

True to his disguise of defiance, he starts things before she can by spitting at her, catching her chin. “Who the fuck are you?” he asks, his English accented with that same Germanic edge. He and his accomplice probably aren’t actually Austrian - it would make it easier to trace - but that doesn’t really matter. The freelancers don’t matter in and of themselves; like Archie’s undead whore and American, it’s what their appearance or disappearance means that matters; information they hold.

So Noora toys with him.

“Let’s lay down some ground rules,” she says darkly, wiping her chin. “There’s information you have that some very important people want. Don’t mistake me for one of them. I don’t care what sensitive shit you know. I just want to hurt you.” She sucks her teeth for a moment, and spit faintly clicks as she opens her mouth again. “But the thing is, my boss and his partners are some of those important people. And they work by honour codes, so I too am beholden to them. That means that if you tell me the truth, I have to stop. So let’s get one thing straight: I don’t want to stop.” She swooshes her pipe through the air as emphasis. The freelancer trembles, green eyes wide and fixed on her. His nose is visibly broken from whatever Tammemets’s people did to him, so she reaches out to pinch it in between her fingers. “Am I clear?”

He whimpers out a pained yes. Noora lets him go with a chuckle and turns away from him, taking three leisurely steps. Then she turns, fast as a cracking whip, and brings the pipe down with a crunch against the freelancer’s bound legs. He shrieks at the pain as reverb jars up her arm, and she smiles, passing the pipe from hand to hand to dispel the reverb. She does it twice more in quick succession, savouring every sound he makes. She doubts she’s actually broken his leg, since metal pipes aren’t very conducive to breaking legs. She’s used to whapping people about the chest, driving the breath from their lungs and breaking ribs, or bringing it down on their fingers or toes; something that breaks easier or is more damaging for less effort.

She lets him catch his breath before she gets his arm. 

His arms are tied around the backrest of the chair, so she knows he’s already in discomfort. She’s just picking up on those pressure points, exploiting them. An especially wild swing catches his forearms, both slamming them hard and pinning them against the chair in a way that wrenches his shoulders. He cries out, cursing her, and she just stares down at him. 

“Buckle up. I’m just getting started.”

She senses a shift in him at that. He’s just a freelancer, after all; an assassin-for-hire who whores himself out to whatever organization is willing to pay him more. But she’s having too much fun to stop. She takes the brothers’ sodden waterboarding towel and stuff as much of it as will fit in his mouth before he can really try to protest, then goes back to her fun. By the time she’s happy to hand things over to Juuso and Pyry, the freelancer’s half-conscious, arms both broken, and she’s sure she cracked a couple of ribs too.

“Have away at him, boys,” she says, savouring the sound of muffled screams.

They do. Pyry holds the freelancer still whilst Juuso uses the razor-sharp blade he reclaimed from Tammemets to carefully peel back strips of skin from their victim’s fingers, slow and methodical. Blood drips onto the floor, staining the concrete.

Pyry mocks him as he shrieks and tries to spit the towel out, brushing a hand through his own long curls before cupping the freelancer’s cheeks as he speaks. “I heard this hurts so bad some people would try to eat their fingers to stop the pain. I hope you want to find out if it’s really true or not, cuz I know I do.”

At the freelancer’s frantic whimper, he breaks out into a cackle. Juuso doesn’t, busy frowning in concentration as he peels away another strip of flesh to the soundtrack of more screams. 

As she watches, Noora’s faintly glad that Eero isn’t working on this one. Doubtless the smell alone would put her off roast dinners forever, and their crew already has one resident vegetarian. She then shudders at the thought of Eero’s egg and avocado breakfast scrambles. She hates avocados.

Eventually though, the freelancer has to speak. Pyry rips out the towel, and they’re all treated to more of the Kett diversion, though this one goes into astonishing detail. Kett was going to have to hear about this, and Noora almost grimaces. The tale is so stupid it’s remarkable anyone from the Old Guard thought the Baltics would swallow it. It’s the sort of tale concocted by someone who’s ever known Kett by reputation only, or despises him as a threat. Everything they say fits Archie far more than it does Kett, for fuck’s sake, but not even Archie is dumb enough to make a move against Klein, or anyone else from the continent.

It leaves Noora with one thought. However good the freelancers are as assassins, their failure with Klein to be disregarded, they’re idiots who didn’t bother doing their homework before they tried to take Klein out. This sort of story might be believable to anyone south of Lithuania, but they were captured in Tallinn! It’s so close to Kett’s territory, so everyone up here would have a reading on him!

Then she’s angry. Angry that the Old Guard really thinks so low of everyone else that they think this sort of bullshit might be even slightly believable within a half hour drive of Kett’s territory, in his fucking hometown, no less. Then she’s angry at the Old Guard’s audacity, attacking Klein when he was well beyond their usual hunting grounds and being tracked by two of the dumbest career criminals she’s ever met.

Because she’s on a roll with her quiet seething anger, she’s finally angry with Klein for not bothering to make the trip across the Gulf to be here himself to put an end to this farce.

But he’s young, and highly wanted, and a lot smarter than he’s credited for, so she shoves that aside.

For his lies, the freelancer is gagged again and the two keep going. They let him try again ten minutes later, when the boss has about fifteen minutes before his meeting. He tries to delay them, get some respite, but Juuso slowly peels him again, so he starts talking like they always do. 

Noora surmises that assassins and guns for hire are the shittest people to hire; they talk so easily after torture she’s known others to suffer through for hours, regardless of how much Tammamets’s men roughed them up beforehand.

Or they’re lying, but the Old Guard chasing down a former employee whose way of going rogue really fucked with their business makes way more sense than Kett just deciding to try to take out someone who’s caused little impact on him with unknown agents in place of men he knows well enough to know they’d get the job done and not get caught.

The freelancer does give a name, though. Sadderach, the Serpent, second-in-command of the Old Guard and the future leader of it. He’s a truly spectacular piece of shit, enough to make Archie look reasonable and hinged, and from the look on Mr Pöyhönen’s face and the glance he shares with Tammemets, they’d already suspected him.

But in their line of work, operating off suspicions alone is rash and stupid. It gets you enemies you don’t need, and that can be all the difference between life and death. 

This confirmation is what Tammemets must have been waiting for, Noora realises. Now he can fight back, move against the Old Guard.

But that lot are canny. They’d likely tracked Klein all the way to Tallinn and hired the freelancers because it could give them a way to take Klein out without the backlash falling on them. They’re probably going to deny any involvement, and the thing is, they could get away with it.

But Tammemets is a through and through schemer. Noora doesn’t doubt he’s got some ideas in mind, plots carefully arranged in his head.

Again, he claims Juuso’s switchblade to do the job. The cleaners are going to have a field day clearing up the blood, but it’s over now. He has what he wants, and he’s enacted revenge on Klein’s behalf.

Mr Pöyhönen checks his watch. “Ah,” he says, pushing off the wall to head for the door, “what perfect timing. My meeting is in five minutes.”

Tammemets barely spares him a glance, staring down at the freelancer with an almost insect detachment. He closes the switchblade and holds it out for Juuso, still eyeing up the corpse. “Let’s lunch together. We’ve got much to discuss.”

“Yes, yes,” Mr Pöyhönen said, somehow both jovial and absent all at once. It’s their cue to leave.

Outside, she sees the opening staff are preparing for the day ahead. It’s snowed since she was last out here, but the parking area has been shovelled, so she doesn’t have to plod through the cold. The wind is bitingly brisk, so she doesn’t linger for a smoke.

Mr Pöyhönen gets into the back of the Audi. Whatever meeting he has, Tammemets apparently isn’t a part of it, for the car is off as soon as the door’s shut. Tammemets walks over to the beamer, making a beeline for it like he’d discussed it with Mr Pöyhönen. Noora swallows a groan of frustration and catches Eero’s eye. Juuso just snorts and heads over to the Volvo to join Pyry in the back seat. Noora debates sticking her leg out to trip him, but that’s not especially professional of her, and it’s icy, so she takes mercy and settles for imagining the satisfaction of doing such a thing instead. It doesn’t do much.

But soon they’re back, Eero pulling up in his spot in the parkade. Mr Pöyhönen’s in the elevator, flanked by the eggs as the doors shut, his phone glued to his ear. He looks almost pleased, so the meeting must be going well.

Tammemets disrupts her train of thought as they all get out of the car. “The cellars smelled astringent,” he said, leading the way to the elevator. “You have a lot of work in there?”

She has no idea why he’s being nosy like this since she’d told him about Archie’s two last night, and she’s definitely not going to ask. “Lessons and interrogations,” she says. “Sometimes people need reminders on etiquette.” Like Archie, but she’s not telling Tammemets shit if Mr Pöyhönen hasn’t cleared her himself.

Tammemets hums, amused in a way that has her blood threatening to boil. “And you like being the one to dish out these lessons.”

She shrugs one shoulder in a pretense of uncaringness, making a mental note to ask Mr Pöyhönen why Tammemets is so interested in her later. “I wasn’t lying down there. I truly like hurting people.”

She’s careful to say it lightly, in case he decides to take it as a threat.

He just makes another amused hum as he palms the button for the elevator. Noora silently seethes all the way up to the boardrooms floor, where they’re met by a peppy Alika bearing coffee and news in a pristine bottle-green suit. Tammemets has a meeting, apparently. Alika doesn’t say who with, since she’s a professional, and at this point Noora doesn’t honestly care. She just wants to be away from Tammemets.

The Estonian takes his coffee and follows his secretary towards whichever boardroom he’s been allocated. 

Noora watches them for a moment before pressing the button for the ground floor. She really needs a smoke, especially after that conversation. 

She’s joined by Juuso and Pyry. Pyry leans against the wall, lazily observing the street. He flicks ash to the ground. “Anyone else get the feeling something’s going on?” he asks. “More than usual, I mean.” Because there was always something going on, but this feels like something more than usual crime business.

Noora takes a drag and blows smoke. “At dinner last night, I was cleared to say we tracked and captured two of Archie’s guys. I didn’t theorise on why they invaded, but I was allowed to say what they revealed about the American and the whore.”

Two sets of eyebrows raise. “Oh yeah?” Pyry asks. 

Noora flicks her cigarette. Ash rains down. “Tammemets told me something in return. A week after the two left Archie, the American arrived in Tallinn by boat. He left for the States that same day. Airport, of course.”

Juuso narrows his eyes at her. “Every time that pair is mentioned around Kett, he gets that weird look on his face like he knows something.”

Noora nods. “I’ve thought the same thing. He knew they weren’t dead, knew it from the start. The only routes to Tallinn by boat are from his and Johnny’s territories. I’d bet the two spent a week lying low in Kett’s land to see what the fallout would be before they left Helsinki.”

Before anyone can speak, a group of pedestrians - students - walk past. They all keep silent until they’re out of earshot.

“And yet Kett’s kept quiet about it.” Juuso’s mouth tightens once the students have gone. “He’s waiting for something.”

“Could it have anything to do with the meeting Johnny and Archie had with Vilhelm recently?” Pyry asks suddenly. 

Noora considers it. “Archie’s been acting strange since then,” she says. 

He’s been paranoid. His men have been patrolling his territory almost obsessively since then, especially the borders, and instead of trickles of erratic behaviour making themselves known, there’s been radio silence until his two yesterday. It’s a marked difference to the past few years. 

Juuso snorts. “I’m surprised Kett wasn’t there, if he’s up to something.”

But Kett plays his own games. Again, he’s slippery. Noora purses her lips. “Do you think he’d show up? If he knows something about the missing two? I think he’d stay back, see what happens first before he makes a move.” She takes another drag.

The two look at her sharply. “Everyone in Helsinki’s going to be at Kett’s next party,” Juuso said slowly. “Even Archie. The boss says he RSVP’d immediately. And there’s going to be the Swedish lot, and both of the Norwegian factions as well as the usual suspects.” Three lots that Archie had tried to ally with in the past. His failure went unsaid as they all exchanged glances.

Noora sighs, expelling smoke. “So I’ll be on the boss’s arm all night, watching for trouble.” But despite herself, she finds she’s kind of excited. This isn’t the high level shit she usually tries to stay out of. This is petty and novel.

Pyry sees right through her. “Don’t sound so bored when we know you’re going to enjoy it.”

She raises her eyebrows, unable to keep a smile off her face. “I’ll let you know if Archie pulls any stunts.” Not that he was the sort to keep his head down. If he was turning up, he was definitely going to try something. She stubs her cigarette out. “Right. I’m off for a ride. I’ll bring lunch when I come back.”

“From the bistro?” Juuso asks. It was a front, yes, but the food was actually good. She nods. 

“The usual?” she asks.

“Yep.” Pyry lights another cigarette. “The boss is having a meeting with Vilhelm later, and I’m on guard duty.”

Noora and Juuso pull a face, pitying. Those meetings were always tense ever since Vilhelm realised Mr Pöyhönen preferred Johnny Cruz’s whores, especially the tall pretty one.

“Good luck with that,” Juuso says, apparently unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. Pyry kicks him for it. Noora tells them to behave before she leaves.

Chapter Text

She calls ahead with her order. Six meals, all to be picked up by one PM. The hostess knows her by voice, and takes ten percent of the price off for her. Noora thanks her for it, because she doesn’t need to do that. The crew can and have paid the full price for meals before, and it’s never stopped them going back.

Then she’s off. Her biking leathers and helmet are in the trunk of Eero’s car since she had to move them there to make room in her storage for a mission for the boss the other day, so she has to text him to come down to the parkade. He makes a fuss as he always does, apparently about to lose at poker to Joona in practice for the upcoming party at Kett’s casino, but then she’s all suited up and ready. She’s out in the open icy air again in what feels like moments, riding through the city. It’s going to snow again soon - does it ever not? - and the streets haven’t been properly cleared, so she goes fairly slowly. It’s not as good as when she can go fast, but it still beats anything else she could be doing right now.

Tarmac slips away beneath her. She rides out of the city, through suburbs and countryside. Houses turn to trees, some bare and some green, all heavy with snow. Out here though, the roads are worse, potholes and snow a dangerous combination, so she turns back for the city after a mile or three with a disappointed sigh. Another day, maybe. Hopefully before the spring thaw, but she knows better than to place her bets on it. Road maintenance offices and local governments never seem to be very good at forming functioning working relationships.

Noora rides aimlessly through Vantaa, not quite patrolling but not quite not. She makes it to the bistro just before one, and parks up to wait inside. Warm air washes over her as she pushes the door open, and the hostess - Elena - greets her warmly. 

To Elena and everyone else apart from the bistro’s manager, Noora and her crew are… 

Actually, she can’t remember right now what lie Henkka - the manager - uses. It’s embarrassing, but Elena isn’t nosy, so she’s never put Noora on the spot. She turns to greet some customers that walked in behind Noora, gathering menus and checking the seating arrangement before she leads them over to a table. Noora sits in the little waiting area and checks her phone notes for where she jotted down what Henkka said. 

Municipal maintenance inspector. It’s meaningless word salad, and it sounds so boring no-one would ever ask questions, which is the point. The building is old, so it stands to reason that the local government would send inspectors around every so often to make sure it won’t come toppling down or grow mould. The river is so close by, you see, so they have to keep such a close eye on it!

It explains why Elena gives her a discount.

Or Elena has figured out what a bullshit title it is, and she’s suspicious and wants Noora off her back. But the basement is always kept locked, and they never leave victims down there unattended. There’s CCTV, too, which Janne checks and deletes every visit, so they’d know if anyone got down there. They’re safe.

By the time Elena returns, the crew’s food is ready. It’s carefully packed away in two paper bags, and once Noora pays, she takes them and returns to the frigid outside to zip them away in her motorbike’s thermal bag. It makes her feel like a Deliveroo driver, which she doesn’t especially like, but the thought of what’s inside the bag is enough to make her swallow her pride. Then she’s hungry, the realisation barrelling at her now the thrill of the ride has worn away. It’s definitely time to get back to the others.

Asphalt slips away beneath her again, and all too soon she’s back in the parkade. She takes the elevator all the way up to the penthouse floor, where the others will be waiting.

Indeed, they’re there, in the little break room by the elevator. The door is open as it almost always is, all the better to listen for intruders in the extremely rare event anyone manages to get this far, and the window is cracked open in preparation for the smell of food. It makes the room almost as cold as it is outside, but that’s just another incentive to eat faster. She sets the bags down on the table and lets the others tear into them whilst she washes her hands and retrieves cutlery, asking what she’s missed.

It’s been a peaceful couple of hours, apparently. The eggs are supervising Mr Pöyhönen’s lunch meeting with Tammemets, and Pyry has half an hour to enjoy the peace before he becomes the bruiser on duty to make sure the boss and Vilhelm don’t try to kill each other. Noora wrinkles her nose again, cutting up a piece of her chicken parm to eat. “It’s weird they keep having meetings. It’s, what, the fifth in two weeks?” Usually the two just speak over the phone. They’ve never really seen eye to eye, and they dealt in different contraband, so they’d never had much of a reason to interact directly.

Pyry shrugs, digging into his shellfish pasta. “I wasn’t at the last ones, so I don’t know what they’ve been talking about. But like I said earlier, it feels like something’s happening. Not just in Helsinki, the usual shit, but something more. You being cleared to tell Tammemets about Archie’s two, his missing pair, the American turning up in Tallinn whilst the whore disappeared, Kett seemingly knowing about it… it feels connected, don’t you think?”

Janne slowly nods over his pizza. Olives and anchovies are scattered across it, and it’s also got a fresh topping of arugula and a splash of olive oil. Slippery and disgusting, in Noora’s mind, but she’s long since stopped judging his food choices when hers can be equally bewildering. “And then there’s the shit with Klein and the Old Guard. Not that that’s related to Helsinki at all, but Tammemets must be up to something. He’s had four months to say that the American turned up on his doorstep, and yet he waits until Klein is safe with him and his attackers have been dragged across the Gulf to us to deal with. He could be just using Finnish turmoil as a smokescreen, but that’s overstepping, even for him.”

“Well,” Joona cuts in, “you know he’s a schemer. Maybe he’s wondering if both things are connected in some way.”

“Maybe it’s just for chaos,” Noora sighs. All this talk is making her lose her appetite.

“He does love his chaos,” Eero agrees. His mushroom risotto is the most pungent of their meals, and Noora’s glad she’s got other things to do than sit in a freezing cold room as the smell of food dissipates.

Juuso is as bored with intrigue as she is right now. “Tammemets is up to something because he always is. Thinking about this is going to give me indigestion. Let’s talk about something else. Who’s watching the hockey with me tonight?”

Eero sticks his hand up, a defiant gleam in his eyes. “You know who I’m supporting, though.” He slams his fist on the table as they all boo him, Joona launching a napkin at him.

Juuso pulls a pained face. “Get fucked, traitor.” Eero is the only one of their crew who doesn’t support Helsinki, a Tampere boy to the bone.

Eero is also utterly unrepentant. “You’re just sad we beat you last time.”

“I hope you savoured that victory, cuz you’re not going to get another one,” Janne taunts him, only for Eero to whistle, eyebrows raised as he grins.

“Ooh, fighting words coming from the losers!”

“One fucking goal!” Pyry bursts in. “One final bullshit goal!”

Really? Noora mouths at Juuso. Of all the conversations he could have opened up, he chose the most emotionally charged one he could have. 

He shrugs, not contrite in the slightest. Noora sighs and supposes it gets the conversation into something more interesting, though it appears not to be any less time-wasting. Discussions about hockey are the most fruitless, since Eero is the most stubborn person she’s ever met and he delights in pissing the others off once the topic turns to sports. 

All too soon it’s time for them to go about their various afternoon tasks. Noora’s spending the afternoon with the brothers, overseeing the checking of shipments in the warehouse. It’s not a fun task by any means, more boring, but she’s had more than enough excitement in the past couple of days. Between Tammemets and Archie, she’s either going to go grey early from stress or develop some kind of heart problem, so for once the mundane dullness of the warehouse is welcome.

Indeed, the warehouse proves to be extremely dull. It’s more quality control stuff than anything else, and it takes hours. The warehouse is cold, too, which makes the time seem to pass extra slowly. Noora begins to regret the fact she’d actually managed to look forward to this earlier, filling out paperwork. Form after form after form, and it’s so cold the pens aren’t working properly, so she has to go to the office to grab a pencil.

But then it’s over, and neither she nor the brothers have so much as uttered a word about all the intrigue shit going on. It’s been as normal as it can be, so for once she doesn’t mind how dark it is when she leaves the warehouse. The brothers drop her off at her apartment building, a nice, quite swanky place situated halfway between the bistro and Mr Pöyhönen’s main office. She pushes the door open, relieved at the warmth, and nods to the doorman as she trudges over to the elevator. She barely waits for him to nod back before she calls the elevator down, already ruminating on what she can have for dinner. 

Something light, as she had such a big lunch. Perhaps a small glass of wine to go with it, and she can put on some TV. Something she can just watch mindlessly, no theories to think about, just something calm before she goes to bed. 

The elevator dings and opens. She steps inside, pressing the button for her floor, and sags against the wall, tiredness washing over her in a wave. She’s hardly paying attention before the elevator dings again and opens so she can spill out into her corridor. Noora readies her keys as she walks, and within moments she’s in the sanctuary of her apartment. She flicks the light on as she shuts the door, banishing the dark.

The apartment is neither big nor small. It’s perfect for her. She can host her crew for a crew-wide dinner without feeling cramped, and she can enjoy the space on her own without feeling lonely in the space. Big mandala tapestries in a kaleidoscope of colours hang from the walls in place of art or photos, and in the far corner her incense burner is ready for her to light it. She toes her sneakers off and drops her keys in the little dish near the door, then pads over to the sofa to flop back against the piles of cushions. The day might not have been especially strenuous, but the webs Tammemets and Kett are weaving are draining to think about, especially when she has so few pointers.

Then Noora decides it’s not worth fussing over right now. She doesn’t have enough to go on to make a proper theory, and despite the interest budding within her against her will, she knows when it’s sensible to leave something alone. She can ask Mr Pöyhönen if what the freelancers said should be relayed to Kett, and if he agrees with her, she can see where that takes her. Maybe she can ask him to fill her in enough to get through Kett’s party. Small, simple things, as if this is just business as usual.

Resolved, she lets out a breath and contemplates getting up to make herself dinner.

Chapter Text

Her breath puffs in the air as she waits for Kett’s men. It’s colder than yesterday, cold enough that it leaches up into her feet through her boots and socks. The harbour’s worst of all in the Helsinki winter, the biting sea breeze merciless as it hunts for unprotected skin. It’s a place Noora hates, but she suspects that’s the whole point of meeting her here. She’s done a similar thing before, knows how it can make someone feel like they’re on the back foot, especially in territory that isn’t their own. It’s what the bistro’s basement is practically for. 

So she lets herself indulge in pouting for a few minutes. Kett will have eyes on her right now, will have been watching since she first entered the harbour, but making her wait is part of intra-gang politics. Letting her stew; another way to feel like she’s on the back foot. She doesn’t let that part affect her. She’s not an enemy, and anyway, she’s not here to see Kett. He’s in a meeting with Vilhelm and Johnny ahead of the party, some weird Helsinki shit no doubt.

No, It’s Kalske and Laine she’s here to meet.

And they’re late.

She tries not to tap her foot with impatience. This is another part of intra-gang politics. Kett’s men know nothing of why she’s here, since Mr Pöyhönen said very little when he’d called Kett first thing. They don’t know how important her information is, so she leans against the wall, checking her phone so she doesn’t stand out so much. She shoots off a text to Joona about how bored she is, more for something to do than for appearances, and pouts when he doesn’t reply immediately. 

In the end, Kett’s men let her stew for ten minutes before they appear from the harbour’s little office space. Noora arranges her face into a simulacrum of pleasant patience, as if it’s not so cold, as if they’re not so late. 

“Louhimo,” Laine takes the lead once he’s close to her, hands in his pockets. There’s a gun barely concealed at his hip, his coat bulky but not quite enough to hide it, and he looks more bored than anything, like this is just a blip in an otherwise usual day. 

But Noora has had enough unusual days lately to feel no pity. “Laine,” she acknowledges. “Kalske.”

Kalske glares at her with eyes of steel from below the faux fur trim of his coat. He looks about as miserable and cold as she feels, and smug satisfaction unfurls inside her. 

She doesn’t indulge in it. “Events in Vantaa are getting interesting,” she begins, “and it looks like they might involve your boss.”

“We’ve heard about Tammemets’s arrival,” Laine says flatly. Despite the cold, he’s bare-headed, the breeze toying with his brassy curls, and she suspects his hands are, too. Winter gloves can be a bit bulky for guns. “Mr Kett doesn’t understand why it should involve him, though.”

Ah. So Mr Pöyhönen had said nothing to Kett. Or at least, nothing to shed light on the situation. Noora’s jaw ticks in mild irritation that it all falls to her. “It’s to do with the Flying Dutchman,” she says. 

That earns a bit of interest. Kett’s two blink, and something in their posture shifts in tandem, so they’re not boxing her in quite so much. 

“Half of Europe thinks he’s dead,” Laine says at last. “There was that shootout on the Czech border.”

Noora smiles. “He’s not with us, but we’ve been assured he still breathes. But his would-be assassins told us some interesting tales before we got the truth from them.”

She doesn’t bother mincing her words. Kett’s men know exactly who she is, what she does. 

“And Mr Kett’s name cropped up.” Kalske still looks a bit annoyed, but he and Laine put together what she laid down well enough. 

Noora nods. “We’re well aware Kett has little reason to eliminate Klein. But the fact that the hired guns gave his name- I’m sure you can see why we felt like your boss should be in the loop.”

Laine tilts his head. He’s not quite as tall as Juuso, but he’s skinny enough that he looks it at a glance. “And does your information go so far as to let us know who really failed to assassinate Klein?” he asks. Around them, fishermen shout and call, fresh catches being hauled and sorted. The air reeks of the sea and the tangy, metallic scent of fish blood.

This is a gamble. She’s been cleared to say it, Mr Pöyhönen’s eyes glinting like he had some plot circling in his head as he gave her permission, but for once Noora too is interested in what’ll happen next. “The Old Guard,” she says. “Sadderach himself was the one who sent them.”

Laine and Kalske exchange a sharp glance at that, not entirely surprised but definitely a little nervous. Kett’s up to some shit, and he knew it could piss off the wrong person. She files that knowledge away but doesn’t react to it.

Laine recovers first. “Thank you for the information. Mr Kett will be very interested in it,” he says.

Beside him, Kalske shifts from foot to foot. For a moment Noora thinks he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. Doubtless there’s nothing he knows that’s worth what she revealed. 

She still has to try. 

“You got anything that’s worth Mr Pöyhönen knowing?” she asks. “That’s worth what I’ve said? Perhaps something to do with this little party of yours, since Archie’s coming?” 

Laine’s mouth is a thin line. “What you’ve said could be war,” he says. “And your boss knows to stay away from Archie. If something comes up…”

Ah. An IOU, something easy to continually put off. Perhaps Kett’s wondering if Mr Pöyhönen’s Tallinn dealings will spell trouble for him, and this is his polite way of standing against it. Nothing to make him an open enemy, but enough for his displeasure to be known. Noora digests his words as gracefully as she can. “We’d be very grateful if you found anything,” she says, letting it go.

Then it’s over. Laine asks if he should escort her back to Vantaa, and she can’t decide if it’s because he’s pretending to be a gentleman to sweeten any sour mood she might be in after earning nothing for what she imparted on them or if it’s a polite way of telling her to get the fuck out of Kett’s territory. Maybe it’s both.

But she arrived by motorbike, and she doesn’t have a spare helmet, so she declines and heads over to her bike. Kett’s men watch her leave, mistrusting eyes burning into her until she’s left the harbour and is heading for the main road to take her home.

As she rides, she reflects that it was perhaps better that she had been the one to deliver the information. Mr Pöyhönen could be quite impulsive, and she fears that if Kett’s already wary of them for their dealings with Tammemets, he’d find Mr Pöyhönen’s inevitable opening question of what the hell have you done to piss off Sadderach and the Old Guard frankly offensive. Like the eggs, Noora is more tactful. It’s what got her promoted from mere enforcer all those years ago to enforcer and ambassador.

And whilst they’re all stable in Vantaa, with some powerful friends, Kett isn’t someone to trifle with. He’s kept on good terms with everyone in Helsinki for years, even Archie until recently, and he’s on better terms with the rest of the Nordics. He’s been an ally in the past, but never an enemy, and Noora knows Mr Pöyhönen is rather eager to keep things that way. 

She’s still annoyed about Kett deciding Vantaa doesn’t need to know anything when she gets back. That irritation carries her up to the boss’s main office to report back on her failure, and as she knocks she suddenly feels like a schoolgirl again, sent to the headmaster’s office for punching Helmi in the face.

Twenty five years later, she still thinks Helmi deserved it.

She puts school out of her head when Jukka admits her to a room scented with Karelia Slims, forcing her expression to evenness.

Mr Pöhyönen looks more happy to see her than anything else. “Ahh,” he says cheerfully, “Noora. You’re back.”

Seated opposite him with the desk between them, Tammemets turns his head to look at her, and she privately thinks he doesn’t know whether to be curious or bored. It does nothing to soothe her irritation, instead turns it into something like humiliation. He doesn’t need to hear this, but he makes no move to leave, simply takes a drag of his cigarette.

So Noora swallows her pride. “It wasn’t a very long conversation,” she says.

Mr Pöyhönen understands, his good cheers fading. “Ah. I’m sorry to hear that. I’d have thought they’d find you the more agreeable of us.”

Tammemets looks between them for a moment, long hair fanning out as his head turns. His eyes are sharp. “Ah, so the fuckers decided that the knowledge that Sadderach might be after them isn’t worth anything in return?” His eyebrows raise. “How insulting.”

“Laine and Kalske did exchange a nervous look, though, like earning the Old Guard’s attention was something they’d been trying to avoid but knew was a risk,” Noora feels compelled to say, wondering if Tammemets is secretly laughing at her. “He gave us an IOU, since he doesn’t want to make an enemy out of us. We intend on honouring it.” Then she tries not to wince. Her voice was too frosty there, almost rude.

Tammemets just looks amused in that way that really annoys her. “Oh, to be a fly on the wall of that conversation,” he says.

Mr Pöyhönen is less amused. “At least Kett’s being honest. He could have told us that Archie’s American went to Tallinn, since Archie’s kicking up a fuss about the pair you caught, Noora. A reveal that the missing whore and American aren’t as dead as Helsinki believes them to be, since of course he has no way of knowing for sure that we already know that.”

Tammemets’s head tilts. Noora wonders if he’s ever met Kett, worked with him, before deciding he probably only knows Kett by reputation despite their relative proximity to each other. “What, make an educated guess that I’d reveal something to you, make another on what it is, and then be able to ‘reveal’ it to you? For what?”

“Plausible deniability,” Noora says. “Then he has all the cards whilst giving us nothing, and looks like an honest man.”

Tammemets frowns. “Sneaky fucker,” he complains.

“Or mind games,” Mr Pöyhönen adds. “He’s a deeply cautious man, Kett. Not someone a man like you could find a friendship with easily. If you hadn’t told us about the American but Kett did, perhaps our alliance wouldn’t be as steady as we had hoped. Drive a wedge between us, eliminate the threat of our coalition without putting himself on the line at all or hurting anything but our pride. He’s threatened by us, and forgets that I know him as well as he knows me. We go back years.”

“And yet he chose to be honest. He sounds exhausting.” Tammemets sips coffee. The smell makes Noora yearn for a mug of her own. The cold had begun to get into her bones on the ride, and a steaming mug would do wonders to warm her up again.

“He is, but Vilhelm is quick to anger and bad at hiding it, Archie is a nightmare we all despise, and Johnny is prickly,” Mr Pöyhönen says. “Of the lot of them, Kett is the easiest to deal with.” He smiles, and it’s a bit sarcastic. “You see why I find it better to stay out of Helsinki.”

“Indeed.” Tammemets shifts the folders in front of him, arranging them into a neat pile of manila. “Well, I should probably think about setting Kett’s nerves at ease and not burn that bridge for you. Do let me know how his party goes, by the way. If it’s interesting at all, I might gatecrash the next one.”

Noora suppresses a smile at the thought of Kett’s face if Tammemets turned up unannounced. Not because Kett deserves that - in fact he deserves her mirth after deciding to leave Vantaa out in the cold because of their alliance with Tallin - but because it’s unprofessional.

Mr Pöyhönen’s smile turns bland. “I’ll keep you updated. We’ll have eyes out in case the Old Guard decide to show up, too.”

Tammemets has made to stand, but he pauses, hands flat on the table. “You expect them to?” he asks around his cigarette. 

A shrug. “I didn’t until the freelancers both mentioned Kett. Perhaps it was nothing but a meaningless decoy, but if Kett’s men reacted like it had been something they’d chanced and hoped to avoid, then maybe it is indeed something more.”

Tammemets allowed that, standing straight. “It never hurts to be vigilant. It’s been good to see you, Jere.”

Mr Pöyhönen nods, standing too to shake hands with him. “Yes, it has been. Have a safe flight, Tommy, and send my warm regards to Klein. I’d like to see him again, once things get quieter.”

Noora observes their farewells with detachment, glad that Tammemets is heading back to Tallinn. She’ll miss Alika, of course, and regrets not being able to catch up with her, but now the dust can settle. A nice little respite before whatever happens next.

Tammemets leaves, Jukka shadowing him, and at a gesture from Mr Pöyhönen, Noora takes the Estonian’s seat. “I suppose we’ll be seeing more of him in the near future,” she says lightly.

Mr Pöyhönen nods. “Tell me everything,” he says.

Chapter Text

She’s right about Tammemets, though it doesn’t necessarily seem that way at first.

The casino’s restaurant is reserved solely for them all tonight. No civilians allowed, only criminals and their associates. It’s a chance for politics, a chance for the Helsinki underworld and their overseas allies to all talk under a peace banner. Make alliances, cut deals. Ripples will come from tonight, as they came from every one of Kett’s parties, but tonight they’ll be bigger than ever. Noora finds herself hoping Kett is prepared for the Old Guard’s inevitable attention, then hopes everyone is prepared for fallout in some way since the Low Countries are looking North. As annoying as the Helsinki gangs can be, she doesn’t want to see them fall to the Old Guard.

The casino isn’t neutral ground, of course, but that’s because the only neutral ground in the city doesn’t have a large enough restaurant, and none of them would trust the staff if it did. A hired boat is another option, the water neutral for all of them, but it’s also February, and Noora has had to get in the middle of enough drunken boat fights to minimise the risk of crashing and drowning everyone that she’d much rather go to the casino. 

She sits next to Mr Pöyhönen in fashionable time for the soup course, smartly glamorous in her black gown. It’s loose not too long, perfect for running in should the need arise, and with the long slits down the side she can reach the knife she keeps on her thigh. Her rings will work as knuckledusters in a pinch, too, and she has an earpiece so Jukka can talk to her, so she’s about as well armed as can be expected whilst staying polite. 

Beside her, Mr Pöyhönen wears black too. He also wears rings, and she’s seen him throw a punch before and knows he can look after himself. Not that anything should happen, of course. But it never hurts to be prepared. She’s kept eyes on all the exits as they filed in to be led to their seats, and Jukka’s there too, standing against the wall like all the obvious bodyguards. 

Not that anyone will be oblivious to the crackling tension. Since Archie sent his duo two weeks ago for her and her gang to educate, he’s been more erratic than ever, and she can bet all of the present company are armed in some way. 

Opposite her, Vilhelm and Johnny are ignoring each other. There’s something tense in the air between them, since after their little alliance crumbled there had been rumours of mild escalation swirling, some whispering that Kett got involved for Johnny. And since Mr Pöyhönen decided that Johnny has the better whores, Vilhelm had definitely been feeling snubbed. Tonight could be a night to smooth over any hard feelings if it all goes well, through one look at Vilhelm’s sour face and Noora knows that’s a long shot. 

Sat between them is Vilhelm’s favourite whore, Joonas. He wears red, his angelic curls catching the light and tossing gold. His full lips and sweet face and easy manner make him dangerously likeable, and Noora can see why he’s risen so high for Vilhelm. 

On Johnny’s other side is his top whore, Joel, dressed in blue and black, elegant rings on his long fingers and dark eyeliner around his lovely eyes. On his other side, resplendent in violet, is Bess. 

She’s not a criminal like them. Instead she’s more like Erika, who’s seated in pink on Mr Pöyhönen’s other side; a socialite with enough ties to their world to be granted a seat at the table. Noora likes them both, though she knows to watch her mouth around them. 

Kett and his lot sit further down, the internationals on their other side. Swedish filters over to Noora every so often when her dinner companions aren’t talking so loudly, but none of it makes sense to her. It’s to be expected, so she files everything away in her mind as she sips some sweet white wine and nibbles politely on some sort of seafood concoction, drizzled with mild chilli oil and salt and resting on a bed of mixed lettuce. To her it’s inoffensive enough, though she isn’t personally much of a seafood person. She used to be, but one bout of food poisoning as a teenager put her off it. Small steps to work back up to it again, not that she’s in any particular rush. 

As the starters are being cleared away, new wine offered for the new course, Archie finally makes his appearance. Their part of table tenses, and Noora eyes up the pair of empty seats at the end with trepidation in her gut. Vilhelm and Joonas are between Johnny and the empty seats, but Archie isn’t known for subtlety. Noora is suddenly glad she’s armed, sat next to the empty seats. 

As one of Kett’s waiters leads Archie and his companion for the night - presumably one of his own whores; a lanky young man with long blond hair and eyes so dead he reminds her of Tammemets - Archie’s eyes flicker across his dinner companions and the seating arrangement. A flash of anger flickers across his face, tight humiliation that he’s as far away from the international business end of the table as it’s possible to be. His mouth tightens as Noora realises what that means about Kett’s current opinion of Mr Pöyhönen too, but he loosens up enough to mutter ‘thief’ at Johnny as he passes him.

Johnny, for his part, ignores him. Noora pretends to be more interested in the chicken picatta being served, but still keeps half an eye on the both of them. Ever since Archie first went off the rails years ago, he’s always had no qualms about letting everyone know how much he hates Johnny, and whilst Johnny’s done well to rise above and ignore Archie for the most part, he will indulge himself every so often. The latest incident had been two weeks ago, and whilst Noora can be sure Johnny hadn’t actually stolen anything from Archie, if Archie was spinning things that way, they’d all have to be cautious. 

Archie and his whore sit with no further words. Archie’s haughty underneath his anger, like he’s already regretting turning up. He and his whore get through their starters, chewing mechanically and listening to what little Vilhelm, Mr Pöyhönen, and Johnny are willing to say with them present. Even Bess and Erika are quiet, conversing with each other across the table only in exchanged looks rather than their usual bubbliness and chatter.

Conversation picks back up as the minutes tick by. Despite the crafty looks Kett sends Archie every so often, no one mentions the missing whore and the American. Bess and Erika start up the gossip train: salacious shit from their less controversial social circles. It’s all reality star drama; who kissed who, who’s pregnant and who’s the father, fallings out and makeups. A few parties and their goings on, but it’s enough to get the ball rolling. Johnny and Vilhelm pick up on names they recognise, links between the socialite circles and theirs. 

Mr Pöyhönen stays silent throughout all this, simply listening. It’s up to Noora to inject something from time to time. She offers nothing more than little side comments, more content to learn about Helsinki happenings than offer anything from Vantaa. 

They’re all nearly finished with their main courses by the time Vilhelm decides it’s time to cut the bullshit. 

“”Any news in Vantaa?” he asks Mr Pöyhönen directly. “It can’t be all quiet and boring up there, not when you had Tammemets for a couple of days at the end of last month.”

Mr Pöyhönen lets the question sit for a moment. He’s watching Vilhelm, Noora can see from the corner of her eye, his expression blandly pleasant. “Baltic affairs,” he says eventually, tone dismissive. “Nothing special, just interesting if you’re nosy.”

Vilhelm’s amused eyes flick to Archie for a moment, half hidden by a fringe of light brown curls. Noora takes the heartbeat of time to decide his moustache makes him look cartoonishly sleazy, as did the sunglasses he’d worn when he’d arrived. 

But his heavy Rolex and expensive suit paint a very different picture. Silver cufflinks flash when his suit sleeves slide back enough, a sharp contrast against the bottle-green shirt. He’s always favoured dark, rich colours, and they suit him well. 

Then his eyes return to Mr Pöyhönen, and Noora files her thoughts away. “And if I am nosy?” he asks. Joonas looks disinterested next to him, as does Johnny, until Noora realises Johnny’s eyes are fixed on Mr Pöyhönen, not quite accusing. He’s more watchful than anything, on his guard, and Joel looks like he’s hardly paying attention as he sips wine. White for him, since he’s eating some posh-looking fish in a creamy sauce, feathers of dill strewn across his plate. 

Mr Pöyhönen sips his own wine before he replies. “The arrival of an American in Tallinn,” he says. His voice is light and casual, like he’s on his best behaviour and this is meaningless, but Noora’s eyes are on Archie in an instant. 

He’s gripping his cutlery so hard his knuckles are as white as his face has gone, his mouth a thin line, eyes blazing rage. His whore isn’t listening whatsoever, slicing up potatoes and eating them like he’s not really here. His pupils are large enough that his eyes look dark, and Noora wonders, appalled, if he’s been given something beforehand. If the missing whore could be found, doubtless he’d be able to confirm anything, but he’s vanished entirely, and Helsinki can only guess at what happens with Archie’s people.

Vilhelm snorts after glancing at Archie again. “Lots of Americans travel, Pöyhönen,” he says, and Noora can feel how much he’s enjoying Archie’s fury, feel the smugness radiating from him across the table. 

“Oh,” Erika cuts in, her smile perfect and knifelike since she’s apparently in on the know, “but this is a special one, Vilhelm.”

Archie glares at her like he’d strangle her and Vilhelm both if they weren’t in public with three people between them and him. Noora fights the urge to reach for her knife on her thigh. It’s for emergencies only, and Archie might surprise them all and decide to do nothing. 

“Ah, forgive me,” Vilhelm nods, his pretense that he isn’t enjoying humiliating Archie like this faltering.

“Yes,” Mr Pöyhönen adds, “it’s rare the day an American returns to LA from Helsinki via Tallinn.”

Archie’s face turns so red Noora morbidly wonders if he’ll explode, her heart sinking. Any chance of him behaving with honour and decency is fleeing out of the window. “Perhaps he had business there,” he says tightly, shrugging like he’s trying to seem uncaring. He’s failing so badly, his body stiff and movements jerky, and everyone knows it. Kett’s watching them now, his second Ana too, though whilst Kett’s amused, Ana looks like he’s preparing for a fight. 

So too, is Vilhelm, all jovial smiles like he’s not pissing off the most vicious criminal in Helsinki. “I’m sure he did,” he said, brightly, and now he wasn’t glancing covertly at Archie anymore but instead openly staring, taunting him. “Business in getting away from someone, perhaps? In making a fresh start?”

It’s too much. Everyone goes silent, nobody able to pretend Archie isn’t an unexploded bomb anymore. Even his whore looks shocked, somewhere behind the veil of intoxication. Archie looks like he can’t believe Vilhelm actually just said that, his rage softened by sheer surprise before it comes back stronger than ever. 

“I won’t sit here and be interrogated like this by an insolent bastard,” he spits venomously. 

“No,” Vilhelm replies, the amusement dropping from his voice to leave it frosty so quickly it shocks Noora, “you’ll sit there and finish your dinner so you don’t cause a scene.”

Archie’s face becomes a mask of rage. “If you think you can tell me what to-” he begins, loud enough that the Swedes the other side of Kett’s men turn to look at them. Noora winces, absurdly glad the Swedes don’t speak Finnish regardless of how Kett will probably translate for them.

“I do, and I will,” Vilhelm snaps, uncaring about the attention. “Your behaviour has been getting worse and worse, and the past few months have done nothing for you. You’ve bragged about killing two of your own men despite that being a blatant and provable lie, you’ve sent goons snooping in all our territories, even up in Vantaa, and you’ve conducted yourself poorly in what have meant to be peaceful meetings if things even so much as look to not be heading wholly your way. My father might have once called you a friend, but he’s dead, and everyone who currently rules Helsinki is here. Whatever bad blood lies between you and Johnny is a decade in the past, and yet not only have you failed to nurse that resentment quietly like any other man might in your place, you’ve seen the rest of us, myself, Pöyhönen and our gracious host Kett, not as potential allies, but as foregone enemies you despise having to court. You’re at the helm of a sinking ship made of naught but your own follies, so yes, I will tell you what you’re going to do here, and you’re going to take it on the chin because if you can’t take a bit of mild humiliation without blowing up, you’re not fit to lead your men.”

“Is that what this is?” Archie retorts, a muscle twitching in his neck from sheer rage, “a humiliation ritual? Did you put them on this, Johnny?”

Johnny clenches his jaw, visibly unhappy with events. “No,” he says, but he’s drowned by Mr Pöyhönen’s lazy drawl of,

“It’s an intervention, Cruz, a wake-up call. We’ve been lenient with you so far. But you stand alone and spit in our faces, and we’re not going to continue being so forgiving. So I suggest you get your shit together before our patience runs out.”

Archie takes his warning and, true to his nature, a creature of habit like any other, throws it in his face. “This doesn’t concern you, Pöyhönen. It’s Helsinki matters, shit you wouldn’t understand.”

Noora can’t help herself. Anger flickers at how he speaks to Mr Pöyhönen, at how he speaks to everyone. It’s just too much, insults piled atop years of insults, and an unusual bout of recklessness hits her fast enough to reply. “Ah, so the names Henkka and Roope Lesonen mean nothing to you, then?”

Even as she says it, she knows she’s too sarcastic to diffuse the conversation. The brothers are dead; the two snivelling bastards Archie sent snooping into Vantaa the same day Tammemets arrived in Finland, and he knows it.

But her words take the wind out of his sails.

“What?” he asks, his anger melting into something like confusion.

She takes the moment, not daring to glance at Mr Pöyhönen for permission, and gives him a cold smile. “There was a lot of mess on those bodies, wasn’t there? The water’s so cold, I’m sure they were perfectly preserved for you to see all of the damage. Roope had so many broken bones, didn’t he? Don’t worry, he was still alive and conscious for all of it. I made sure of it.”

Archie’s fingers tighten on his cutlery. For a moment Noora thinks he’s either going to stab her with his fork or slap her, perhaps throw his wine over her, but instead he turns to Mr Pöyhönen. “Get your bruising bitch under control, Pöyhönen,” he says loudly, voice thick with anger he’s still trying to keep hidden. Beside him, his whore trembles, apparently finally becoming aware of the conversation.

“No,” Mr Pöyhönen says shortly. “You’re in no position to make demands of us.”

“As if you’re all so fucking righteous!” Archie returns. “Johnny stole my chief whore!”

“Then why did he spend a week in Kett’s territory?” Johnny finally gives in, jaw clenched as Archie glares in outrage at their host. “He left you, and came running to me. Everyone in Helsinki can attest to that. I don’t make a habit of stealing escorts, only borrowing them.” A glance at Vilhelm accompanies his last words. Noora frowns, wondering what that’s supposed to mean before she recalls their falling out after Vilhelm proved stingy of a payment, and how Johnny hit him in the wallet for a month and had two of his own people nabbed.

Lalli and Kaunisvesi had bragged about bruising up one of their collateral, too; a simple bartender.

God, Noora didn’t like them.

But Vilhelm doesn’t look put out or annoyed at Johnny’s words. Instead he smirks. He’s smug, she realises, like a plan is drawing together.

No, it can’t be… she narrows her eyes. Had that whole falling out been an act? They’d been getting close before, so Vilhelm had had seemingly little reason to suddenly turn his coat like that, but if the whole thing had been feigned or exaggerated, any rivals would have felt a lot less threatened by an alliance between them.

And it would have been a smokescreen to hide the real reason for their many meetings. How sneaky of them! Noora can kind of admire it, but only because Johnny is an ally of theirs.

“Then return what’s mine,” Archie demands, finally looking away from Kett. “Then I’ll think about your absurd requests.”

Johnny doesn’t even look at him. “He’s a free man, and he doesn’t want to be with you, not after that last night.”

Archie splutters, but it’s the whore Joel who Noora is watching. He’s pale under his makeup, and she knows enough about how he spent years under the thumb of Vilhelm’s father to know he knows what horror looks like. If someone who’d survived all that is unnerved at just the thought of what Archie’s missing whore had undergone, no wonder the current unlucky bastard is doped out of his head on something. Doubtless she’d do something similar in his shoes if murder was out of the question.

“One whore, that’s all it’ll take, and you won’t even meet me there,” Archie scoffs once he’s finished blustering. 

“There’s nothing to meet,” Vilhelm says flatly. “You hold

no bargaining chips. We're offering you the chance to reclaim some of your dignity and respect, and you’re fighting it. If you want war, we’ll give it to you. None of us are unfamiliar with attrition, and the four of us outnumber you. Hell, with our overseas allies, just one of us outnumbers you. Your American friends are too far away, and considering how thin their visits have been lately, they’re not likely to come calling when you need them. Face the facts, Cruz. You’re at the end of the line.” 

Whatever Archie is about to say next is interrupted by the waitstaff clearing the table for dessert. He glowers until they’re gone. “You think I’m scared of you? I know you, know your ego. You can’t even maintain an alliance with Johnny without it crumbling. Kett knows not to get in my way, as as for Vantaa…” he snorts to show what he thinks of their area. Anger burns in Noora’s chest at how dismissive he is, but she’s said enough. “I’ve got more money, better overseas connection than the Scandis or Tammemets, and I can entice my connections back to me.”

“Can you?” Mr Pöyhönen asks pointedly. “If you could, why not have it done already before this dinner? Better still, why let those relationships crumble in the first place? You’re a Helsinki gun-runner and pimp who acts like a New York mobster with even less class and grace. You ape men with sense who built criminal empires, all whilst letting your father’s decay around you. You’ve harkened backwards to halcyon days that never even existed, and every time you come close to stumbling across reality, you blind yourself to it and blame everyone else. Once you trafficked second-rate drugs, now you pimp second-rate whores strung out on god-knows-what, and you’re a second-rate player in gang politics. We’re done with your shit, and have been for a while.”

It’s the perfect thing to say to ensure Archie will choose war. Noora dismisses peace in that moment, realising that no-one at the table ever truly wanted peace with Archie, or even thought it possible.

She’s annoyed Mr Pöyhönen forgot to tell her beforehand, but that’s secondary to her, filed away as she watches Archie to see if he’ll start the war now. Perhaps he’ll stab someone with his cutlery; either her or Vilhelm since they’re closest to him, or order the thug he brought with him to start shooting from the doorway.

But he surprises them all, red-faced and sour.

“This isn’t over,” he sniffs haughtily, like he was gathering the shreds of his dignity as the waitstaff bring out dessert. Noora has a crème brûlée set before her, the top perfectly golden. So too does Archie’s miserable whore, though he looks like he’d rather be sick than eat anything, a faraway, unnervingly hollow look in his eyes like the colour had leached from the world long ago. 

Once everyone has their dessert in front of them, she begins to dig in. Archie’s eyes are on her - she can feel it - but she doesn’t give him the satisfaction of looking up. She merely eyes his plate of tiramisu, his spoon poised just above it, to make sure he’s not about to do anything untoward.

It wouldn’t be the first time, after all. 

After a long moment he gives in and eats. Slowly, begrudgingly, but he and his whore make their way through their desserts mechanically.

They remain for another hour after the tables are all cleared. By then, everyone is on port or sherry or whiskey; post dinner drinks whilst they meet up to discuss business. Mr Pöyhönen enters a tentative conversation with the Stockholm lot; three gangs of relative heavyweights in their world Kett’s been on good terms with for years. The Swedes are collected and affable, and Noora does her best to translate their words for Mr Pöyhönen, wishing Joona was with her too since his Swedish was far better.

But of all of Mr Pöyhönen’s bruisers and bodyguards, she’s the best chameleon. Joona is sweet when not dishing out violence, but he’s too quiet for a dinner like this. It makes people suspicious, even though he’s just a natural wallflower, so Noora does her best not to stumble over her words, hands clasped before her with a polite smile on her face.

They’re halfway through their conversation - trade deals on gun-smuggling, though the Swedes are understandably wary of Mr Pöyhönen’s friendship with Tammemets - when Kett circles around to them, Erika and the pair of his crew Noora hasn’t yet met in tow. He wears brilliant scarlet, an attractive contrast to his perfectly trimmed blond hair, a glass of sherry in his hand. Noora meets his smile, shifting to the side so the pair have enough space to squeeze in next to her.

He greets the Swedes before he greets Mr Pöyhönen. It’s a tiny snub, a delicate reproach she and Mr Pöyhönen both know is about Tammemets.

Then he turns to her. “Miss Louhimo, what a delight,” he says in warm Swedish, fingertips barely on her shoulders as he lands whispery kisses on each of her cheeks.

“The pleasure is all mine,” she replies in the same language. “What a wonderful dinner you’ve hosted. Helsinki seems like it’s been rather eventful since we last visited.”

Kett looks mildly chagrined as Erika translates for Mr Pöyhönen. “Ah, yes. I suppose it seems that way. But you handled yourself admirably against our latecomers, I must say.”

Ah. So perhaps their position down with Archie away from the internationals wasn’t the insult Noora had initially perceived it as.

Or Kett used Archie’s unexpected acceptance of the dinner invitation as an excuse to place her and Mr Pöyhönen away from the business end of dinner. She can’t always tell with him, and it could always easily be both.

But he has that plausible deniability he’s so fond of, so she simply continues to smile before their little audience. “I must say, it was a fortuitous opportunity to clear up any misunderstandings that might be muddying the waters.” 

“Yes,” Mr Pöyhönen chimes in, eyes glittering, Erika’s painted lips by his ear, “opportunities like that don’t tend to present themselves all that frequently.”

His tone is just a little bit too sharp, but Noora doesn’t flinch. She keeps smiling; ever the lovely peacekeeper.

Kett takes his words on the chin despite the way his crew members bristle at the mild telling-off. “Talking of opportunities, I hope I wasn’t interrupting a fruitful conversation? I know you’re usually so busy with the Baltics and Balkans that you don’t usually get the chance to make connections in Scandinavia.”

Spoken like Tammemets and Mr Pöyhönen’s friends in Slovenia and their connections are trifling at best and annoyingly meddling at worst. Noora feels her smile begin to curdle, but lets Mr Pöyhönen take the lead again.

For once, he’s diplomatic. “Scandinavia’s always been more your domain than mine, and I’d rather not try to steal your allies away from you right under your nose,” he says brightly for Noora to translate. “Besides, between you looking west and me looking south, I think it gives us a common cause.”

His eyes are on Archie, who’s making a fool of himself sulking at the bar. Hannes smirks, amused, and the Swedes chuckle amongst themselves after Noora’s translation. 

“Still,” Mr Pöyhönen continues, turning to the Swedes, “it’s been wonderful to meet you all.”

The leader of the Swedish faction - Mr London, a man of middling height with icy blond hair - raises his glass. “We wish you the best, Mr Pöyhönen. A fruitful future.”

Mr Pöyhönen shakes his free hand as he raises his whiskey. “And we you, Mr London.”

Whatever he’s about to say next, mouth open, breath taken in preparation for it, it’s cut off by a commotion from the bar that erupts so suddenly the casino dining hall goes quiet. Archie’s arguing with one of Vilhelm’s men, gesturing angrily with one hand clutching a glass. It empties as he gets more and more worked up, but it’s the vice-grip he has on his whore that makes Noora want to wince. Even at this distance it’s clear it has to hurt, but the whore just holds his own mostly full glass, sipping intermittently like he’s just trying to be polite and tuning the world out. 

Noora doesn’t think she’s ever seen anyone look so miserable.

Vilhelm’s man is standing his ground, cold and aloof, but the man himself looks furious as he crosses the cleared floor of the dining area, Kaunisvesi in tow. Tension crackles between them all, the argument primed to turn ugly, and Kett wrings his hands, making his farewells to them before he heads over to try to calm things down.

As Noora watches, the buzz of conversation slowly starting back up, a glass is pushed into her hands. She looks away questioningly, but it’s Mr Pöyhönen giving her the wine. A Grenache, she decides after a sip. A light red, since there’s no food to have with it except canapes and crostinis from trays of nibbles the waitstaff are offering around. There’s even a little station serving cheese and crackers, and she’ll visit it once she’s free to step away for a minute or two, load up a plate with brie or cheddar or a nice sharp blue and a little selection. That way she can keep nibbling so her head is clear of alcohol without continually leaving Mr Pöyhönen for any length of time.

When she looks back to the bar, Vilhelm’s getting into it with Archie, though he’s too quiet for Noora to hear anything. Kett reaches them, his men flanking him, and begins to try to smooth things over. 

Archie’s not having it. When Kett lays a hand on his arm he shakes him off, furious, and storms out of the casino, dragging his whore along so suddenly the man spills his drink. All eyes are on them as his bodyguard follows. There’s a moment of quiet before the slamming of a car door and the sound of an expensive, heavy engine purring off into the night.

Only once it fades does conversation come back properly, Kett returning to them.

“His days are numbered,” one of Mr London’s lot; a tall, leonine man with sandy hair and long, loose limbs, remarks to the dark haired man next to him. “I’m surprised Helsinki has had so much patience with him for so long.” Then he realises Noora overheard him, and toasts her with his port like she wasn’t meant to have heard him. “It’s certainly been an eventful dinner, hasn’t it?”

She lets his faux pas slide gracefully. “Positively riveting,” she says as Erika translates for Mr Pöyhönen. “I’m sure we’ll all have much to think about once the night is done. Though I’m sure Stockholm must be equally exciting,” she flatters. “A big city like that can’t be especially quiet.”

He gives a knowing smile whilst his dark haired companion eyes her suspiciously, lips pursed. “It has its moments.”

Push and pull, give and take. That’s what this world is, and Noora knows when not to press. She gives way to Kett, and finally spots her window to grab her plate of cheese and crackers.

Mr Pöyhönen joins her, and so does Erika. They all share, juggling glasses and the plate and taking it in turns to nibble. Vilhelm and Johnny wheel around to talk with them in their own time, Vilhelm’s conversation more lip service to manners than genuine interest. Bess oooohs the cheese plate, so Noora offers it, and she piles a sourdough cracker with some crumbly buffalo blue and half a blackberry, careful not to smudge her violet lipstick as she crunches down on it. Joel takes some too, shyly; some sliced smoked cheese atop a little rosemary and pecorino biscuit, topped with a juicy little slice of pear. At Mr Pöyhönen’s offer, Johnny partakes too, brie atop a little water cracker, and washes it down with his sherry.

They talk business as they eat, though nothing especially incriminating with the socialites present. Johnny alludes to some minor kerfuffle in the Low Countries, though admits Vilhelm would know more about it. Kaunisvesi spent a few years in Amsterdam, apparently, and made contacts he still keeps in touch with. The New Hand, not the Old Guard; the rebel faction that seems to be trying to rival Sadderach’s people. Noora smirks despite that potentially bringing their interests into alignment with Vilhelm’s.

“The Old Guard are still out for Klein,” Mr Pöyhönen offers in exchange for the information.

Johnny sucks his teeth, frowning. “He must have seriously upset them, for them to still be going after him. It’s been more than a year.”

Mr Pöyhönen shrugs. “No-one like a former insider to be the most dangerous should they choose a new side,” he says conversationally. Johnny nods in agreement.

“Brutality earns enemies, not allies,” he says, something like pain or regret passing over his face. Archie, though Noora doesn’t dare breathe the departed man’s name. Archie hangs like a spectre over Helsinki, and she’s much rather not have to think about him.

Then she wonders if perhaps Klein’s split from the Old Guard reminds Johnny of his split from Archie. Johnny got the manpower in that departure, of course, whilst Klein went on the run, so it’s not the same, but Noora can’t imagine the similarities pass a man like Johnny by.

“And we’re not going to make their mistakes,” Mr Pöyhönen says softly, gravely. Johnny nods stiffly, sipping his drink. Their little group falls quiet after that, and Noora glances around the room, keeping an eye on who’s standing where and talking to who.

Two of the Swedish lots are conferring with each other, eyes roaming the dining space. One of them is a crew Noora doesn’t recognise, but the other is Devine’s lot. The eight of them cut an eye-catching sight, but Jukka is closer to them. Noora looks away from them and raises a hand to her head, pressing the button on her earpiece under the pretense of fixing her hair, and tells him to listen to anything they say if he can hear it. Then she shifts one of her hairclips and eyes up Vilhelm where he talks with Mr London. From both his and the Swedes’ expressions, it’s mere courtesies and nothing more.

Other gangs mill about. Most are people Noora knows by face and reputation; crews from other cities. The two most notable are Mr Luttinen and Mr Laihiala, sometimes rivals and sometimes allies up in Oulu. Despite the distance, they’re close with the Gothenburg gangs. As far as anyone outside the two cities is aware, it’s all for rather low level shit, simple gun and drug smuggling. Nothing like the Helsinki and Stockholm circles, and for the most part they seem to make efforts to stay out of the affairs of the Baltic Coast. They prefer to use the Gulf of Bothnia for their smuggling, with trusted men in Tornio and Haparanda to oversee things. 

The Baltic Coast gangs leave them be right back, since they’re little to no threat. Doubtless their invitation to this dinner was just Kett letting them know he remembers they exist.

Things wind down more and more the closer it gets to midnight. People begin to retire for the night; early birds who don’t usually stay up this late. The first fight breaks out past midnight, but it’s just drunken arguing spilling over. In the morning the combatants will have forgotten what it was even about, so they’re just packed off home with a mild reproach.

Johnny’s the first of the Helsinki lot to leave. He, Bess, and Joel made their rounds saying their farewells, Johnny’s man Toivunen melting from the door to shadow them, and then they’re gone. Vilhelm leaves half an hour later, but Mr Pöyhönen waits until Noora’s suppressing yawns just before one to make his exit. Erika joins them, piling in the back of the car with him and Noora. Jukka drives them back to Vantaa, and Noora finds herself dozing off, lulled by soft chatter, the purr of the engine, and a stomach full of wine and cheese and good food.

She jolts awake once they’re in the parkade, flushed and embarrassed. Erika laughs lightly, amused, and Noora gives her a flustered smile as she clicks her seatbelt undone and gets out of the car.

Jaakko is waiting for them, his face professionally impassive. He whispers something to Mr Pöyhönen, who’s linked arms with Erika. She’s spending the night, Noora surmises sleepily, though right now it’s not really her duty to know. Jaakko and Häärijä have the night shift. All she needs to do is put her knife away in her locker in the break room before Jukka drives her home.

True to form, he offers before she follows the boss and Erika to the elevator. 

“Thank you,” she mumbles, patting his shoulder as she goes. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”

The elevator ride passes in a blur. Then they’re on the top floor, the doors opening for them to spill out. Erika giggles, full of champagne, whilst Jaakko leads the way. Häärijä stands down the end of the corridor outside Mr Pöyhönen’s private apartment. He acknowledges them with his usual smile, opening the door for them once they get closer to him. Noora can’t help but smile fondly herself as she waits for them to disappear inside. Once the door shuts, she enters the break room.

It’s dark, everyone else gone home for the night. Usually the darkness is welcoming, a velvety blackness lulling her to just doze off on the sofa. But for some reason, the inky shadows send an odd shiver down her spine, the dark feeling less comforting than usual, instead oddly watchful. She ignores it, putting it down to her tiredness, and flips the light on before heading to her locker. She unlocks it, then unbuckles the sheath on her thigh and puts it away, closing the door. Once the lock clicks, she turns to head out, back down to Jukka.

And nearly jumps out of her fucking skin.

Like a bad smell, Tammemets has returned to Helsinki, and is standing in the doorway in his blue suit, hands clasped behind his back, the bland smile that never reaches his eyes on his face. “I hear the party was eventful, yeah?”