The lights were low, golden, casting a honeyed sheen over the velvet-lined walls. Cigar smoke hung thick in the air, curling around the crystal chandelier like fingers unwilling to let go. Jazz played somewhere in the background—low, lazy, sultry—just enough to fill the spaces between silence and intent. The room smelled of expensive perfume, sweat, and gun oil, a cocktail of danger and pleasure that clung to everything.He sat in the center of it all, in a wide leather armchair that looked more like a throne. His suit was charcoal, the fabric soft and cut to precision, the shirt beneath unbuttoned just enough to reveal the edge of a tattoo, ink faded with time, but still dangerous. His voice, when he spoke, was deep enough to still the room. It didn’t need to be raised. It was a voice that demanded silence, and it got it.The phone was a heavy, old-school rotary fixed to the table beside his drink. He liked the weight of it, the resistance in the dial, the way it felt like calling so
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