The reception hall at the River Club had completely lost its warmth by eight-thirty. The grand, sprawling space had narrowed into a cold gallery of grey limestone and heavy, dark green velvet drapes that framed the twenty-foot panes of plate glass looking out onto the East River.
Elias stood by the high iron balcony rail, his knuckles white around a glass of dry vermouth that he hadn't touched since the registrar called the recess. Through the gap in the heavy drapes, the lights of the Queensboro Bridge were bleeding through the ascending river fog—a pale, watery orange that resembled a row of broken teeth cutting through the dark.
Every muscle in his body was wound tight, aching with a raw, throbbing reminder of what had happened in the pitch-black arbitration room just an hour before.
