(Liam Romano POV)
The Blue Note called itself classy, like a ragged man calling himself refined. It was a dive dressed in fake velvet and low light, the kind of place that sold nostalgia and served regret in shot glasses. A cheap chandelier swung lazily over the bar, throwing tired light across cigarette smoke that clung to the curtains like an old rumor. Lemon disinfectant tried to pretend the place was clean; the air told the real story — whiskey, sweat, the piano's sticky keys complaining beneath a sad, practiced tune.
I was ten minutes late on purpose. Punctuality hands out no favors. Power lives in the small cruelties: the ones you make others endure while you enter calm and unhurried.
Marcus sat where we'd agreed — back booth, half-shadow, all suit. The fabric looked expensive eno
