Chapter 17: Dirty Hands in Silk Gloves

A Smoky Underground Lounge

Backstreets of the City

A few days after the engagement announcement

The lounge was the kind of place where hope came to die quietly in a glass of cheap liquor. The walls sweated nicotine and dust, and the air clung to the skin with the damp grip of forgotten years. Somewhere near the bar, a slow jazz riff crackled from a broken speaker, distorted and scratchy, the notes bending as though drunk themselves.

In the back, past the smoke-choked tables and a hallway that smelled of mildew, two men stood like silent statues before a red velvet curtain. Their throats were marked with curling tattoos that hinted at unspeakable debts. They didn't move when the curtain parted.

Behind it lay the real meeting.

The private room stank of old cigars, stale whiskey, and blood some dried into the floorboards, some still fresh enough to glisten faintly under the single overhead bulb. The light swayed on a fraying cord, casting warped shadows that clung to the corners like hou