DAVE
Who would have imagined that after returning from my honeymoon with my wife, the very first person I would choose to visit willingly would be Romilly? Not out of affection, mind you, but necessity.
My men, who have been tasked with keeping her under close surveillance—and will continue to do so for as long as I see fit—reported her whereabouts to me earlier. She’s at the local bar, most likely waiting for someone. Who she’s waiting for is of no concern to me.
As I stepped into the dimly lit establishment, the stale scent of cheap liquor and unwashed furniture hit me immediately, a sharp reminder that this was far from my usual haunts. Clad in a tailored vintage jacket—an old-world piece I had customized to fit my tastes—I scanned the room, my eyes expertly picking her out amidst
