Chapter Forty Five

The moment Damon pushed the heavy steel door open, the sound of muffled bass seeped through the air — slow, steady, not quite music but something close. The interior was dim, washed in the muted amber glow of hanging lights that cast long shadows on the concrete floor. The space was large, like a reimagined bar that never got its license. No customers, no bottles on shelves, just a counter and a few worn-out chairs arranged haphazardly.

A couple of men in dark suits sat in the back, half-turned toward them, their faces unreadable behind tinted glasses. The faint click of one man’s lighter punctuated the air, followed by the smell of cheap tobacco. Damon and Felix exchanged brief knowing glances as they stepped forward.

Richard was seated near the center — an almost theatrical position, one hand draped over the back of his chair, the other holding a cigarette between two fingers. When he spotted them, his expression flickered briefly before settling into his usual s