The Chairman leaned back in his seat. His wiry frame folded like an old blade, but still remained sharp enough to cut through bone if drawn. His eyes, black and heavy, did not leave Dominic. They didn't even blink.
It was one of the younger men on the far side who broke the silence first. His voice was slick, and practiced, when he parted his lips. "So… the Cross boy talks like the world bends on his word. Tell me, Dominic, how many storms have you survived, alone? Without the shadow of your father at your back?"
A ripple of murmurs flicked through the table. Almost all sixty men had something to say. The rest of the few who had nothing to say leaned back on their seats.
Dominic didn't answer. His silence was deliberate. He processed every word he heard on the table, and let the man's words echo and die of their own emptiness. Grigor shifted behind him, his stance firm, as if daring anyone else to step forward.
