Morris Adams sat alone in the half lit study, the air heavy with stale smoke and the sharp bite of whiskey. The fire in the grate had burned low, leaving only a bed of dying embers that pulsed a dull, stubborn red.
His shirt hung loose over his frame, creased and faintly sour from nights slept in the chair. A thin layer of stubble had grown into a rough beard, shadowing the hard lines of a face once known for cold composure.
He stared into the glass in his hand. The liquor barely moved, reflecting the jitter of his tired fingers. Once, a single look from him could send rivals retreating and subordinates scrambling to obey.
Now, even the silence in the room seemed to look back at him with quiet reproach.
The reflection on the darkened window showed a man he hardly recognized. Eyes dulled by sleepless nights. Shoulders sagged under the weight of choices he could no longer pretend were just business.
Emma.
