Playing the Devil's Game
I was starting to have doubts, the saviour image of Russo I was building in my head was starting to crumble.
As the second round of drinks arrived, I approached the table with a tray filled with glasses, the ice clinking softly within them. Emilio Vargas and his brothers remained focused on their conversation, their voices low and measured. Alejandro, however, took the opportunity to indulge in a moment of insolence. As I set down the glasses, his hand slipped beneath my tray, fingers brushing across my backside in a suggestive and utterly inappropriate manner.
In an instant, my training kicked in, and I reacted with the swiftness of a predator. My hand shot out, firmly gripping Alejandro's
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