The club hummed with conversation, a fog of cigar smoke and cologne. Crystal chandeliers threw a golden hue atop the well-dressed crooks who laughed and whispered and exchanged blood-soaked money. Here, betrayal was currency, and trust, nonexistent, the heart of the Syndicate’s power.
James sat at the bar, fingers curled around a glass of whiskey, although he had no intention of drinking it. His stare was glued to Idris, seated just twenty feet away, unaware of the tempest that was minutes away from bursting through the roof and raining down upon him.
Idris laughed at something The Broker said in his ear. His hubris was maddening.
Malik, next to James, rolled up his suit cuff, saying, up under his breath, “We don’t have long before they see Kasim never checked in.”
James nodded. “Then
