The velvet-lined walls of the Monterio Valley Clubhouse banquet room muffled the sounds of the outside world, creating a cocoon of unearned confidence. Reuben sprawled across a leather armchair, a thick cigar smoldering between his fingers. On the mahogany table before him lay a series of photos of the charred Apollo site.
"She looked like she was about to cry," Reuben chuckled, the sound like dry leaves skittering over pavement. "All that talk about 'municipal authority.' She’s a child playing with blocks. Give it three more nights of 'accidents,' and she’ll be bringing me that billion on her hands and knees."
"You’re misreading the board, Reuben."
The voice came from the corner of the room. Shark, a man whose face was a map of old scars and hard-won lessons, stood by the bar. Unlike R
