The federal plaza arbitration room smelled entirely of clean money, brand-new wool carpets, and lemon furniture polish. It was a freezing, sterile box, chilled by an air-conditioning system that had been running at full blast since Sunday night. The environment stood in massive, clinical contrast to the dark, sweaty basement where Elias Hawthorne and Damien Vance had spent the weekend destroying each other.
Elias’s wrists were raw. Beneath the clean navy suit jacket his assistant had rushed over at seven-thirty, the stiff, salt-dried canvas of the flannel shirt he had worn in the truck was still chafing his skin. But the real friction was deeper. Every time Elias shifted in his seat, the ache in his thighs reminded him of how Damien had pinned him against the unsealed particleboard desk j
