All eyes turned to Kyle the moment Marcello's words faded into the heavy silence. The weight of those gazes was almost physical, pressing down on him from every angle like atmospheric pressure at the bottom of the ocean. Kyle could feel each of them studying him—assessing, measuring, calculating what threat or value he represented.
Viktor's stare was the most visceral, those metal teeth visible as his lips pulled back in something between a grin and a snarl. The Russian's massive hands rested on the table, fingers thick as sausages, scarred and tattooed. Those were hands that had broken bones, crushed windpipes, torn flesh from living bodies. And they were currently drumming a slow, methodical rhythm on the polished wood, a predator's anticipation.
