CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Hello, Peter,” Garrou said softly as he sat on his leather reading chair in the front room of his brownstone, smoking a Cuban cigar. A tumbler of Woodford Reserve sat on the table next to him.
This had so far proved to be a delightful few days for Garrou and was turning into an even better evening. The first day of autumn earlier in the week marked the beginning of his favorite season, and the muggy warmth of the city had broken on that clear, beautiful day. His legislative agenda was going well, and he’d been able to parlay his injuries into sympathy for his suffering, leading to improved poll numbers.
Garrou smiled as he thought about how he’d twisted the knife into Peter earlier, taunting and teasing him, and now he was about to enjoy the penultimate pleasure of the
