He’s just finishing up. Be a dear and take this in. He’ll be pleased to see you.

The hallway was silent, lined with dark portraits of unsmiling men. From behind the door, a low murmur of voices, a steady, serious hum.

You turned the brass handle and pushed.

The room was vast, dominated by a long, polished table. Ten men in sharp, dark suits were seated around it, papers and lowball glasses scattered before them. Cigar smoke hung in the dim light from the green-shaded lamp.

All conversation died.

Every head turned. Hard eyes, assessing, curious, immediately dropping to the tray in your hands, then to your face, your frame in the simple dress.

At the head of the table, Marcus leaned back in his leather chair. His suit jacket was off, his white shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing the dark ink that coiled around his forearms. His expression, which had been all sharp angles and cold command, shifted.