CASSIAN
Emilio Vincenti didn't just walk into a room; he performed an entrance. He stood in the center of the harsh, overhead light, looking down at me as if I were a piece of furniture he was considering throwing away.
He was exactly as I remembered him, only older and polished to a more dangerous shine.
He wore a dark, tailored suit under a heavy brown coat with a thick fur trim. His shoes were Italian, leather-soled, and cost more than most people earned in a year.
He had a scar on his upper lip and another crossing his brow... reminders that he hadn't always been the one standing behind a desk.
His hazel eyes were cold, scanning me with a mixture of hatred and deep, hungry satisfaction.
He wanted wealth and violence to be seen at the same time. He wanted everyone to know he could buy you or bury you, and it didn't matter which.
"Out," he spoke again.
