Amara’s POV
The "Lucky Scissor" was no longer a bar; it was a courtroom where the judge had arrived with a sledgehammer.
The air in the room felt thick enough to choke on, vibrating with the raw, suppressed violence radiating from Adrian. He didn’t look like the man who graced the covers of Forbes. He looked like a man who had walked through a hurricane to find the person who had set it in motion. His charcoal overcoat was damp from the city mist, and his eyes—usually so cold and controlled—were burning with a dark, manic clarity.
Mickey "The Needle" was vibrating. His hands were flat on the sticky mahogany table, hovering near the stacks of hundred-dollar bills that now looked like pieces of a suicide note.
"Adrian, don't," I whispered, reaching out to touch his arm. My fingers brushe
