The silence inside The Rusty Anchor was no longer just heavy; it was entirely suffocating, possessing the density of a collapsed star.
Thirty hardened, violent enforcers stood frozen in place, their empty hands hovering awkwardly in the air above the discarded pile of revolvers and shotguns on the sticky floor. They stared at their boss—a ruthless, bloodthirsty kingpin who routinely ordered executions before breakfast—groveling on his knees in front of a man wearing a cheap, ill-fitting black suit.
Elara Vance stood paralyzed, her breath trapped in her throat. The cold, metallic pressure of the revolver barrel that had just been pressed against her skull was gone, but the phantom sensation lingered. She looked down at Lorenzo Rossi, the man who had promised to drag her into a back room a
