The hum of the engines was a steady heartbeat in the clouds. The private jet sliced through the night sky, silver against black velvet. Inside, the dim cabin lights threw a golden haze over leather seats and polished walnut tables.
Marcus sat by the window, one hand curled around a glass of bourbon, the other drumming against his knee. His jaw was tight enough to crack stone. Every few seconds, he checked his watch, as if time itself was testing his patience.
Vincent leaned against the opposite seat, his head tilted slightly, eyes following Marcus with quiet worry. He could tell the man's stillness wasn't calm—it was the storm's eye.
Christopher's voice cut through the tension.
"Boss, you do realize you've been glaring at that bourbon for the last ten minutes like it owes you money?"
Marcus didn't respond. He took a sip instead.
James snorted from behind his tablet. "Leave him, Chris. Man's probably imagining wringing Lucifer's neck mid-flight."
