The underworld of Haven City thrived on a currency far more volatile than gold: fear. Inside the subterranean depths of the Brilliance Entertainment flagship club, the air was a thick, cloying cocktail of expensive cigar smoke, the scent of high-end perfume, and the primal heat of hundreds of bodies moving in sync to a deafening bassline.
By the time Marcus Sterling arrived, leading a small contingent of his most loyal personal security, Conrad Stone was already a fixture of the environment. He sat in a central booth, leaning back with a grace that suggested he owned the very foundations of the building. In his hand, a glass of amber liquid caught the erratic flickers of the Strobe Lights, shimmering like liquid fire.
Nearby, four Sentries—masquerading as diligent waiters—circled the per
