Reed’s POV
The office was a fortress, held in one of our most lucrative clubs. The heavy scent of aged whiskey clung to the air, mixing with the faint musk of Rhett’s cigar. Shadows from the dim overhead light danced across the polished mahogany table, illuminating the creases tension on each of our faces.
On the table laid a loaded Glock, its black surface glossed under the golden hue of the nearby lamp. The room was quiet, save for the occasional clink of ice as I turned my glass in my hand, watching the amber liquid swirl.
This wasn’t just another meeting. This was a war meeting.
I glanced across the table at Rhett, who leaned back in his chair, silent as ever. His face was unreadable, but his posture radiated barely-contained tension, his hand resting near the Glock closest to him
