Forty-fourThe marked bottle sat on the floor at Aristide’s feet, where he’d placed it when Russell had handed it back to him.
Hector de Vile planted himself inches from Russell’s face, hands stiff by his sides.
“The bottle, Russell. Pass. Him. The bottle.”
A gust of air blew through the room, lifting hair off dozens of temples as men expelled long, shocked breaths, exhaling in concert. Aristide’s own temples were clammy. The temperature in the stuffy space had increased by several degrees over the last five minutes, he was sure.
The men at the back of the room, who hadn’t heard de Vile’s low challenge, were standing on tiptoe to see over the heads of the men in front. Mumbling word fragments reached Aristide’s ears.
“What’s going on?”
“Drink it, you say?
“No. Never!” The last said w
