The room smelt of cigars and cold steel.
The chandeliers on the high ceiling screamed nothing less than luxury. Hidden inside one of the bowels of the most well-known charitable organizations, the syndicate’s meeting chamber pulsed with light from a dozen monitors lining the walls. The faces were cast in shadow, only coming to light when a cigar was lit.
The council had gathered. Five figures sat across the huge mahogany table. Their reflections cast a shadow on the table, giving the room a more sinister look. Each of these figures had blood on their hands, and each of them had more reason than the other to hate the man whose name would dominate the meeting.
Damon.
A sixth seat on the table sat empty, but it was once occupied by Damon Blackwood. One of the syndicate's most valued asse
