Damien’s POV
There were nights when business was the only thing keeping me from losing my mind.
Tonight needed to be one of those nights.
I met Marco DeLange at La Portena, a private lounge I hadn’t stepped foot in since before the Rivera war. It used to smell like money and cigars, the perfume of untouchable men. Tonight, it smelled like desperation and cheap whiskey the stench of men trying to claw their way back from hell.
He was already waiting when I walked in. Marco. Once my equal, now a ghost wearing a borrowed suit. His cufflinks didn’t match, and his shirt collar had a crease that screamed he’d ironed it himself. His smile was too eager, too stretched across a face that had lost its confidence.
He rose when I approached. “Damien Wolfe,” he said, forcing a laugh. “Still punctu
