“No, I have never heard of the… what was it? Milites Mortes? That means Warriors of Death if I am not mistaken,” he says, as he turns his gaze away to pour himself another drink, “and you believe this club exists?” he asks hesitantly. I sigh and look at my trembling hands. They hurt. A lot. “Why do you think this is real?”
“Because I found this,” I say and place the black business card on his kitchen counter. He glances briefly at it and nods.
“I have seen this before,” he says.
“Really? Where?”
“All over the city. Someone made these to create the illusion that the club exists. I am sure that’s all there is to the story.”
“And if it isn’t?”
“Then you should stay far away from things like that. It sounds dangerous. I am sure your brother wouldn’t want you anywhere near i
