Dwade sat at the head of the table, his chair pushed back, a fresh bourbon glass in hand. The remains of dinner lay scattered across the table—half-eaten chicken, cold corn, wine dripping crimson in the bottom of Betsy’s glass.
He leaned back, tapping his fingers against the wood. His earlier fury had burned down into something colder, more deliberate. Rage was heat. But vengeance—that was ice.
Across from him, Betsy lounged in her chair, one leg crossed high, twirling her wineglass between her fingers. Her red lipstick glowed against her pale smile. “You know,” she drawled, “I love this. Hitting Roman where it hurts. His little… charity act.”
Dwade’s mouth twisted. “Charity, my ass. He thinks moving that medicine makes him some kind of saint. He’s no better than me—just dresses his sin
