The moment Hubery Barrett crossed the threshold, the air in the room grew heavy with the promise of violence. He didn't just walk in; he invaded the space, his massive frame blotting out the light from the courtyard. His eyes, small and piggish beneath a heavy brow, shot a glare at Issac Monroe—a look of pure, unadulterated malice. It was the look a butcher gives a stray dog before reaching for a cleaver.
But Hubery didn’t waste time on the stranger. His primary targets were the elderly couple trembling by the altar. He turned his attention to Rodney Lynch, pointing a finger thick as a sausage at the old man's nose.
"Listen to me, you old coffin dodger," Hubery growled, his voice a bass rumble that vibrated through the floorboards. "If you don't cough up that money today, I’m not just go
