In the sterile, mahogany-paneled executive suite of the Harbor Grand, the air was thick with the scent of high-grade tobacco and the silent, vibrating terror of a man who knew he had touched the third rail. Victor Yates remained on his knees, his forehead pressed against the plush carpet.
"I can forgive you, Victor," Liam Livingston said, his voice as smooth and cold as a sheet of ice. "But only if you become my eyes. Keep a constant, unblinking watch on Preston Montgomery. I want to know every room he enters, every deal he whispers about, and every cent he spends. Can you manage that?"
"Thank you, Mr. Liam! Thank you!" Victor gasped, his voice cracking with a frantic, animal relief. He didn't dare stand until Liam offered a sharp, dismissive nod.
Liam turned to Ulysses Yates, who stood
