My office is exactly as I left it – dark mahogany furniture, leather-bound books lining the walls, and the distinct smell of aged whiskey in the air. Julio's already there, his usually pristine suit slightly rumpled from the day's events. The amber liquid in his glass catches the light from my desk lamp as he takes a sip.
"A drink first," I say, making my way to my desk, trying not to let my injuries show in my movement.
"Already poured," Julio replies, nodding to the glass waiting for me.
I ease myself into my leather chair, unable to hide a wince as my bruised ribs protest. Thank God the abandoned building was too dark for Frankie to see the state of my chest – she'd have broken down completely if she had.
Taking a long sip of whiskey, letting the burn ground me, I switch to Spanish.
