“You’re late.”
Celeste iced at the warehouse doorway, trying no longer to reveal the nerves twisting in her belly. Eight people sat around a long metal table — leaders from both families. People who had risked everything to meet here in secret.
“Traffic,” she lied.
In truth, she had been standing outside for 10 minutes, wondering if coming here was a terrible mistake.
Damien stood beside her. His hand brushed hers — a small, quiet way of saying I’m here.
They walked to the table together. Every eye followed them. Some faces were cold, some curious. One woman’s glare felt sharp enough to shoot bullets.
“Let us begin,” Celeste stated, pulling out a chair. The sound of it scraping towards the concrete ground echoed through the anxious silence.
“This better be good,” Victor grumbled. He
