"You've been in Cresthaven for years now, and plenty of people have wanted you dead. Every single one of them left empty-handed." Roman Gault leaned back in his chair, cigarette balanced between two fingers, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. "So this time, the one who took your finger... who exactly are we dealing with?"
The man sitting across from Silas Carmichael was none other than the president of the Iron Blades Syndicate. He wore a crisp white suit that gave him the air of a refined businessman rather than a crime lord, and not a trace of the underworld clung to his polished exterior.
Silas stared down at his right hand, at the ugly stump where his thumb had been. That missing digit meant he would never wield a blade properly again, and the thought festered in him like slow
