The restaurant was dimly lit.
The low hum of conversation and clinking glass filled the air. Damian sat back in his chair, the collar of his black shirt slightly open, his watch glinting under the light.
Viktor sat opposite him, a glass of whiskey in his hand, gesturing animatedly as he spoke.
"So the contract with the Italians went through," Viktor was saying, his voice low and confident.
"But we'll need to move the cargo through another port if we want no interruptions."
Damian's gaze was distant. He gave a slight nod, his jaw tightening, his fingers tapping the rim of his glass.
Viktor noticed. "You're not even listening, man," he said, leaning back with a half-smirk. "Who's got your mind so lost lately, huh?"
Before Damian could answer, the soft sound of heels clicked across the marble floor. Both men turned their heads — and there she was.
Isabel.
