The chapel stank of smoke and sweat, tension rolling off every man seated at the long table. Sons on one side, Saints on the other, with Jack and Lawrence anchoring the heads.
Silas sat rigid in his chair, arms crossed, eyes locked on the man across from him. Paul.
Owen flipped another page of the ledger in front of him, his voice calm but the words heavy. “It’s not just the fifty grand. There’s a shipment unaccounted for. Supplies ordered, paid for, never arrived.”
Bobby leaned forward, forearms braced against the wood. “Shipments don’t just disappear. Somebody’s either sloppy, or somebody’s lying.”
“That’s right,” Lawrence added, his gaze sweeping the room. “And if there’s rot in your walls, Jack, you know what has to be done.”
Paul gave a slick little laugh, too quick. “Come on. Sh
