Chapter 12: The Smoke Between Storms

The scotch in my hand looked like liquid fire under the bar's low amber lighting — twelve years aged, neat. I swirled it gently, not to stir the taste, but the thoughts I'd been holding back all night. On nights like these, the burn was less about the alcohol and more about memory.

I'd always hated drinking alone. Now, I didn't mind it — I just hated what came with the silence.

Across from me, Graham Vance sat back in the leather armchair like he owned time itself. The man was a living contradiction: silver hair and sharp suits paired with the mischief of a trickster god. He was in his sixties now, but no one ever guessed it — maybe because his eyes were still young, full of calculations and jokes only he found funny.

"Alright," Graham said with a smirk, "out with it."

I tilted my glass in his direction. "Out with what?"

"That look on your face. The one that says, 'I just danced with the devil, and now I need someone to tell me if I still have my soul.'"

I couldn't help the small grin. "You always did have a gift for dramatic phrasing."

"It's why I made partner at thirty-two. Now come on, Crane. You've been sitting on something. Let's hear it."

And that's how I started talking.

About Redwell Biogenics. About Anais Mercer. About how the entire thing started as a potential rocket to credibility — and almost buried me before I'd even climbed high enough to fall.

About how I buried a pharmaceutical leviathan in court and still walked out with the cleanest hands in the room.

Graham didn't interrupt once. He just sipped his drink — some smoky Islay monstrosity — and nodded at the right places.

When I finally stopped talking, it felt like I'd finished running a marathon I didn't realize I had started.

He rested his glass on the polished table between us. "You're sure there's been no movement from Langford?"

"Nothing. It's like the man vanished."

"And you're still sure he wasn't just the errand boy?"

I nodded. "Absolutely. He had the air of someone who answered to someone else."

Graham's lips thinned. "Then they're waiting. Someone like Langford doesn't disappear unless he's told to disappear. Which means… the next move isn't yours."

"I know," I said quietly. "But I'm not going to sit around and wait for the curtain to rise."

He chuckled. "Of course not. You're Alister James Crane, after all."

I leaned back. "I told myself, after Redwell, I'd take a breather."

"But you didn't."

"No," I said, studying the golden light catching the edge of my glass. "I built."

Crane Legal wasn't just a firm anymore. It was an ecosystem.

What started with just Max, Rina, Tom, Marcy, and me, working fourteen-hour days out of a shoebox office with bad ventilation and worse coffee, had evolved.

Now we were three departments strong. Criminal defense. Corporate risk. Civil litigation. A quiet compliance team that knew how to dig for gold in paper trails.

There was still Rina with her spreadsheet wizardry and analytical brilliance. But a few new additions like Theo, our investigator, whose grey beard made him look like a retired detective, but who could still tail suspects for hours without blinking. And Priya — sharp-eyed, sharper-tongued — who was beginning to manage our public relations strategy better than anyone I'd ever hired.

Max, of course, was still at the heart of it — researcher, go-to man, basically partner in everything but title. If I were the sword, Max was the one forging it behind the curtain.

Clients came through word of mouth now. Big names. People I once admired on TV were calling me. They wanted me in the room. They wanted my name on the letterhead.

And still — none of it felt real when I went home at night to a high-rise apartment that was too quiet for its size.

After the divorce, I threw myself into work like a man on fire. Sarah's name hadn't been mentioned in months. Her number was deleted.

And yet, sometimes, I'd catch myself staring at the empty side of the bed, wondering how long it would take before that phantom weight — the one that comes from loving someone who stopped being yours — would finally lift.

I hadn't included much about her in my conversation with Graham, but he knew enough to skip the topic tonight. And I was grateful for it.

"You've always been good in the courtroom," Graham said. "Better than me, even. But this... this expansion... It's more than survival, isn't it?"

"It's leverage," I said. "You taught me that. Win a case, and you gain attention. Build an empire, and you gain control."

"And control is what you want?"

"It's what I need."

He studied me for a long second. "So what's next?"

I smiled faintly.

"I'm looking into forming an acquisition arm."

That got his attention.

"Strategic capital?" he asked.

"Distressed assets. Pre-IPO tech firms. Undervalued biotech portfolios. Anything with potential no one else sees."

He laughed. "Christ, Crane, next thing you'll be running for Senate."

"I'm not interested in politics," I said. "But the people who control the rules of the game? I want to sit across the table from them."

His eyes glittered with amusement.

"You know they'll come for you."

"I'm counting on it."

We were interrupted, just as the second round of drinks arrived.

Not rudely. Not loudly. But with purpose.

A woman approached our booth, her presence like a violin string plucked softly in the dark.

Slate-grey dress. Dark eyes. A presence that wasn't flirtation or flash — just clarity.

"Excuse me," she said, looking to Graham first out of courtesy. Then her gaze met mine. "You're Alister Crane, aren't you?"

I nodded.

"I just wanted to say… your cross on Dr. Mercer was surgical. I'm in regulatory affairs myself. Most people don't see that kind of precision outside of Senate hearings."

I smiled, rising slightly from my seat. "Thank you. I appreciate it."

"Clara," she said, extending her hand.

Our fingers met — brief, warm.

No cards. No suggestion. Just acknowledgment.

As she left, Graham sipped his drink and let out a breath through his nose.

"You get that often?"

"No."

"Shame," he said. "You could use someone who talks like they know what it costs."

I didn't reply, but I thought about her voice long after she was gone.

As we both got up to leave, he stopped just before entering his car and said

"You know. This is the Alister I've always wanted to see."

"You seem unhinged. In a way...after....If you know what I mean...."

"... Yeah."

Later that night, I drove home past midnight.

The building concierge nodded at me like I was royalty. The lobby smelled like fresh-cut flowers and ambition. I stepped into my penthouse and felt the silence wrap around me like a tailored coat.

The headlines from Redwell were long gone now. The storm had passed. My name had landed on lists — Top 10 Lawyers Under 35 to Watch, New York's Most Fearless Legal Minds — and the media loved a man who could speak with fire but smiled like marble.

But the game wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

Langford was gone. But he wasn't dead. And I knew enough to know the people behind Redwell weren't just letting it go.

They were watching.

Waiting.

And so was I.

That night, I pulled out a new file. Clara's card wasn't in it, but her name had been scribbled on a Post-it note beside some biotech portfolios I was reviewing.

I didn't know if she'd come up again. Maybe she was just a flicker in the dark.

But something told me this was the beginning of a different kind of play — one that didn't just end in the courtroom.