The room stank of blood and gun oil. A shattered glass decanter dripped whiskey across the floorboards, seeping into the rug like a spreading wound.
Gabriel sat at the head of the long table, a cigarette burning between his fingers, the smoke curling like a serpent around his sharp features. His men stood in a nervous half-circle before him, eyes downcast, waiting for the storm to break.
It already had.
The back of one soldier’s skull painted the wall behind him — Gabriel hadn’t even flinched when he pulled the trigger.
“They slipped out,” he said quietly, too quietly. His voice carried more weight than a shout ever could. “After I handed you Helena… after I gave you simple orders. Hold them. Pin them. Finish it.”
His gaze lifted, cold and predatory, landing on the men who still lived
