Damian hated visiting Danny. He hated it so much. It wasn’t that the guy was a normie. Damian was more than familiar with normies, friends with a few, even. His father was a normie, although, unfortunately, that meant that he was eighty-six and in a retirement home while his mother, a spry one-hundred-and-two-year-old woman, spent her middle age years sipping mimosas, watching soap operas, and sarcastically reading excerpts of romance novels at her book club.
No. What Damian hated about visiting Danny was Danny himself. The man was… decent, for the most part. He was nice, friendly, reliable, and absolutely vital in smoothing deals over with Max. But the twenty-two-year-old was obsessed, and Damian could not think of a correct method in addressing the concern, short of the humane method of
